Ewriting Format by Carl Peterson © 2001

The $30,000 Bequest
A Dog's Tale
Was It Heaven? Or Hell?
A Cure for the Blues
The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant
The Californian's Tale
A Helpless Situation
A Telephonic Conversation
Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale
The Five Boons of Life
The First Writing-machines
Italian without a Master
Italian with Grammar
A Burlesque Biography
How to Tell a Story
General Washington's Negro Body-servant
Wit Inspirations of the "Two-year-olds"
An Entertaining Article
A Letter to the Secretary of the Treasury
Amended Obituaries
A Monument to Adam
A Humane Word from Satan
Introduction to "The New Guide of the
Conversation in Portuguese and English"
Advice to Little Girls
Post-mortem Poetry
The Danger of Lying in Bed
Portrait of King William III
Does the Race of Man Love a Lord?
Extracts from Adam's Diary
Eve's Diary

***
THE $30,000 BEQUEST

CHAPTER I
Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants,
and a rather pretty one,
too,
as towns go in the Far West.

It had church accommodations
for thirty-five thousand,
which is the way of the Far West and the South,
where everybody is religious,
and where each of the Protestant sects is represented and has a plant of its own.

Rank was unknown in Lakeside--unconfessed,
anyway;
everybody knew everybody and his dog,
and a sociable friendliness was the prevailing atmosphere. Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store,
and the only high-salaried man of his profession in Lakeside.

He was thirty-five years old,
now;
he had served that store
for fourteen years;
he had begun in his marriage-week at four hundred dollars a year,
and had climbed steadily up,
a hundred dollars a year,

for four years;
from that time forth his wage had remained eight hundred--a handsome figure indeed,
and everybody conceded that he was worth it. His wife,
Electra,
was a capable helpmeet,
although--like himself-- a dreamer of dreams and a private dabbler in romance.

The first thing she did,
after her marriage--child as she was,
aged only nineteen-- was
to buy an acre of ground on the edge of the town,
and pay down the cash
for it--twenty-five dollars,
all her fortune.

Saladin had less,
by fifteen.

She instituted a vegetable garden there,
got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor,
and made it pay her a hundred per cent.

a year.

Out of Saladin's first year's wage she put thirty dollars in the savings-bank,
sixty out of his second,
a hundred out of his third,
a hundred and fifty out of his fourth.

His wage went
to eight hundred a year,
then,
and meantime two children had arrived and increased the expenses,
but she banked two hundred a year from the salary,
nevertheless,
thenceforth.

When she had been married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and comfortable two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre,
paid half of the money down and moved her family in.

Seven years later she was out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning its living. Earning it by the rise in landed estate;

for she had long ago bought another acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit
to pleasant people who were willing
to build,
and would be good neighbors and furnish a general comradeship
for herself and her growing family.

She had an independent income from safe investments of about a hundred dollars a year;
her children were growing in years and grace;
and she was a pleased and happy woman.

Happy in her husband,
happy in her children,
and the husband and the children were happy in her.

It is at this point that this history begins. The youngest girl,
Clytemnestra--called Clytie
for short-- was eleven;
her sister,
Gwendolen--called Gwen
for short-- was thirteen;
nice girls,
and comely.

The names betray the latent romance-tinge in the parental blood,
the parents' names indicate that the tinge was an inheritance.

It was an affectionate family,
hence all four of its members had pet names,
Saladin's was a curious and unsexing one--Sally;
and so was Electra's--Aleck.

All day long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman;
all day long Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife,
and thoughtful and calculating business woman;
but in the cozy living-room at night they put the plodding world away,
and lived in another and a fairer,
reading romances
to each other,
dreaming dreams,
comrading
with kings and princes and stately lords and ladies in the flash and stir and splendor of noble palaces and grim and ancient castles.


CHAPTER II
Now came great news!

Stunning news--joyous news,
in fact.

It came from a neighboring state,
where the family's only surviving relative lived.

It was Sally's relative--a sort of vague and indefinite uncle or second or third cousin by the name of Tilbury Foster,
seventy and a bachelor,
reputed well off and corresponding sour and crusty.

Sally had tried
to make up
to him once,
by letter,
in a bygone time,
and had not made that mistake again.

Tilbury now wrote
to Sally,
saying he should shortly die,
and should leave him thirty thousand dollars,
cash;
not
for love,
but because money had given him most of his troubles and exasperations,
and he wished
to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its malignant work.

The bequest would be found in his will,
and would be paid over.

PROVIDED,
that Sally should be able
to prove
to the executors that he had TAKEN NO NOTICE OF THE GIFT BY SPOKEN WORD OR BY LETTER,
HAD MADE NO INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE MORIBUND'S PROGRESS TOWARD THE EVERLASTING TROPICS,
AND HAD NOT ATTENDED THE FUNERAL. As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the tremendous emotions created by the letter,
she sent
to the relative's habitat and subscribed
for the local paper. Man and wife entered in
to a solemn compact,
now,

to never mention the great news
to any one while the relative lived,
lest some ignorant person carry the fact
to the death-bed and distort it and make it appear that they were disobediently thankful
for the bequest,
and just the same as confessing it and publishing it,
right in the face of the prohibition.
for the rest of the day Sally made havoc and confusion
with his books,
and Aleck could not keep her mind on her affairs,
not even take up a flower-pot or book or a stick of wood without forgetting what she had intended
to do
with it.


for both were dreaming. "

Thir-ty thousand dollars!"
All day long the music of those inspiring words sang through those people's heads. From his marriage-day forth,
Aleck's grip had been upon the purse,
and Sally had seldom known what it was
to be privileged
to squander a dime on non-necessities. "

Thir-ty thousand dollars!" the song went on and on.

A vast sum,
an unthinkable sum!
All day long Aleck was absorbed in planning how
to invest it,
Sally in planning how
to spend it. There was no romance-reading that night.

The children took themselves away early,

for their parents were silent,
distraught,
and strangely unentertaining.

The good-night kisses might as well have been impressed upon vacancy,

for all the response they got;
the parents were not aware of the kisses,
and the children had been gone an hour before their absence was noticed.

Two pencils had been busy during that hour--note-making;
in the way of plans.

It was Sally who broke the stillness at last.

He said,

with exultation:
"Ah,
it'll be grand,
Aleck!

Out of the first thousand we'll have a horse and a buggy
for summer,
and a cutter and a skin lap-robe
for winter. "


Aleck responded
with decision and composure--
"Out of the CAPITAL?

Nothing of the kind.

Not if it was a million!"
Sally was deeply disappointed;
the glow went out of his face. "

Oh,
Aleck!" he said,
reproachfully.

"We've always worked so hard and been so scrimped:

and now that we are rich,
it does seem--"
He did not finish,

for he saw her eye soften;
his supplication had touched her.

She said,

with gentle persuasiveness:
"We must not spend the capital,
dear,
it would not be wise.

Out of the income from it--"
"That will answer,
that will answer,
Aleck!

How dear and good you are!

There will be a noble income and if we can spend that--"
"Not ALL of it,
dear,
not all of it,
but you can spend a part of it.

That is,
a reasonable part.

But the whole of the capital-- every penny of it--must be put right
to work,
and kept at it.

You see the reasonableness of that,
don't you?"


"Why,
ye-s.

Yes,
of course.

But we'll have
to wait so long.

Six months before the first interest falls due. "


"Yes--maybe longer. "


"Longer,
Aleck?

Why?

Don't they pay half-yearly?"


"THAT kind of an investment--yes;
but I sha'n't invest in that way. "


"What way,
then?"


"
for big returns. "


"Big.

That's good.

Go on,
Aleck.

What is it?"


"Coal.

The new mines.

Cannel.

I mean
to put in ten thousand.

Ground floor.

When we organize,
we'll get three shares
for one. "


"By George,
but it sounds good,
Aleck!

Then the shares will be worth-- how much?

And when?"


"About a year.

They'll pay ten per cent.

half yearly,
and be worth thirty thousand.

I know all about it;
the advertisement is in the Cincinnati paper here. "


"Land,
thirty thousand
for ten--in a year!

Let's jam in the whole capital and pull out ninety!

I'll write and subscribe right now-- tomorrow it maybe too late. "


He was flying
to the writing-desk,
but Aleck stopped him and put him back in his chair.

She said:
"Don't lose your head so.

WE mustn't subscribe till we've got the money;
don't you know that?"


Sally's excitement went down a degree or two,
but he was not wholly appeased. "

Why,
Aleck,
we'll HAVE it,
you know--and so soon,
too.

He's probably out of his troubles before this;
it's a hundred
to nothing he's selecting his brimstone-shovel this very minute.

Now,
I think--"
Aleck shuddered,
and said:
"How CAN you,
Sally!

Don't talk in that way,
it is perfectly scandalous. "


"Oh,
well,
make it a halo,
if you like,
_I_ don't care
for his outfit,
I was only just talking.

Can't you let a person talk?"


"But why should you WANT
to talk in that dreadful way?

How would you like
to have people talk so about YOU,
and you not cold yet?"


"Not likely
to be,

for ONE while,
I reckon,
if my last act was giving away money
for the sake of doing somebody a harm
with it.

But never mind about Tilbury,
Aleck,
let's talk about something worldly.

It does seem
to me that that mine is the place
for the whole thirty.

What's the objection?"


"All the eggs in one basket--that's the objection. "


"All right,
if you say so.

What about the other twenty?

What do you mean
to do
with that?"


"There is no hurry;
I am going
to look around before I do anything
with it. "


"All right,
if your mind's made up," signed Sally.

He was deep in thought awhile,
then he said:
"There'll be twenty thousand profit coming from the ten a year from now.

We can spend that,
can we,
Aleck?"


Aleck shook her head. "

No,
dear," she said,
"it won't sell high till we've had the first semi-annual dividend.

You can spend part of that. "


"Shucks,
only THAT--and a whole year
to wait!

Confound it,
I--"
"Oh,
do be patient!

It might even be declared in three months-- it's quite within the possibilities. "


"Oh,
jolly!

oh,
thanks!" and Sally jumped up and kissed his wife in gratitude.

"It'll be three thousand--three whole thousand!

how much of it can we spend,
Aleck?

Make it liberal!--do,
dear,
that's a good fellow. "


Aleck was pleased;
so pleased that she yielded
to the pressure and conceded a sum which her judgment told her was a foolish extravagance-- a thousand dollars.

Sally kissed her half a dozen times and even in that way could not express all his joy and thankfulness.

This new access of gratitude and affection carried Aleck quite beyond the bounds of prudence,
and before she could restrain herself she had made her darling another grant--a couple of thousand out of the fifty or sixty which she meant
to clear within a year of the twenty which still remained of the bequest.

The happy tears sprang
to Sally's eyes,
and he said:
"Oh,
I want
to hug you!" And he did it.

Then he got his notes and sat down and began
to check off,

for first purchase,
the luxuries which he should earliest wish
to secure.

"Horse--buggy--cutter--lap-robe--patent-leathers--dog--plug-hat-- church-pew--stem-winder--new teeth--SAY,
Aleck!"
"Well?"


"Ciphering away,
aren't you?

That's right.

Have you got the twenty thousand invested yet?"


"No,
there's no hurry about that;
I must look around first,
and think. "


"But you are ciphering;
what's it about?"


"Why,
I have
to find work
for the thirty thousand that comes out of the coal,
haven't I?"


"Scott,
what a head!

I never thought of that.

How are you getting along?

Where have you arrived?"


"Not very far--two years or three.

I've turned it over twice;
once in oil and once in wheat. "


"Why,
Aleck,
it's splendid!

How does it aggregate?"


"I think--well,

to be on the safe side,
about a hundred and eighty thousand clear,
though it will probably be more. "


"My!

isn't it wonderful?

By gracious!

luck has come our way at last,
after all the hard sledding,
Aleck!"
"Well?"


"I'm going
to cash in a whole three hundred on the missionaries-- what real right have we care
for expenses!"
"You couldn't do a nobler thing,
dear;
and it's just like your generous nature,
you unselfish boy. "


The praise made Sally poignantly happy,
but he was fair and just enough
to say it was rightfully due
to Aleck rather than
to himself,
since but
for her he should never have had the money. Then they went up
to bed,
and in their delirium of bliss they forgot and left the candle burning in the parlor.

They did not remember until they were undressed;
then Sally was
for letting it burn;
he said they could afford it,
if it was a thousand.

But Aleck went down and put it out. A good job,
too;

for on her way back she hit on a scheme that would turn the hundred and eighty thousand in
to half a million before it had had time
to get cold.


CHAPTER III
The little newspaper which Aleck had subscribed
for was a Thursday sheet;
it would make the trip of five hundred miles from Tilbury's village and arrive on Saturday.

Tilbury's letter had started on Friday,
more than a day too late
for the benefactor
to die and get in
to that week's issue,
but in plenty of time
to make connection
for the next output.

Thus the Fosters had
to wait almost a complete week
to find out whether anything of a satisfactory nature had happened
to him or not.

It was a long,
long week,
and the strain was a heavy one.

The pair could hardly have borne it if their minds had not had the relief of wholesome diversion.

We have seen that they had that.

The woman was piling up fortunes right along,
the man was spending them-- spending all his wife would give him a chance at,
at any rate. At last the Saturday came,
and the WEEKLY SAGAMORE arrived.

Mrs. Eversly Bennett was present.

She was the Presbyterian parson's wife,
and was working the Fosters
for a charity.

Talk now died a sudden death--on the Foster side.

Mrs. Bennett presently discovered that her hosts were not hearing a word she was saying;
so she got up,
wondering and indignant,
and went away.

The moment she was out of the house,
Aleck eagerly tore the wrapper from the paper,
and her eyes and Sally's swept the columns
for the death-notices.

Disappointment!

Tilbury was not anywhere mentioned.

Aleck was a Christian from the cradle,
and duty and the force of habit required her
to go through the motions.

She pulled herself together and said,

with a pious two-per-cent.

trade joyousness:
"Let us be humbly thankful that he has been spared;
and--"
"Damn his treacherous hide,
I wish--"
"Sally!


for shame!"
"I don't care!" retorted the angry man.

"It's the way YOU feel,
and if you weren't so immorally pious you'd be honest and say so. "


Aleck said,

with wounded dignity:
"I do not see how you can say such unkind and unjust things.

There is no such thing as immoral piety. "


Sally felt a pang,
but tried
to conceal it under a shuffling attempt
to save his case by changing the form of it--as if changing the form while retaining the juice could deceive the expert he was trying
to placate.

He said:
"I didn't mean so bad as that,
Aleck;
I didn't really mean immoral piety,
I only meant--meant--well,
conventional piety,
you know;
er--shop piety;
the--the--why,
YOU know what I mean.

Aleck--the--well,
where you put up that plated article and play it
for solid,
you know,
without intending anything improper,
but just out of trade habit,
ancient policy,
petrified custom,
loyalty to--to--hang it,
I can't find the right words,
but YOU know what I mean,
Aleck,
and that there isn't any harm in it.

I'll try again.

You see,
it's this way.

If a person--"
"You have said quite enough," said Aleck,
coldly;
"let the subject be dropped. "


"I'M willing," fervently responded Sally,
wiping the sweat from his forehead and looking the thankfulness he had no words for.

Then,
musingly,
he apologized
to himself.

"I certainly held threes-- I KNOW it--but I drew and didn't fill.

That's where I'm so often weak in the game.

If I had stood pat--but I didn't.

I never do.

I don't know enough. "


Confessedly defeated,
he was properly tame now and subdued.

Aleck forgave him
with her eyes. The grand interest,
the supreme interest,
came instantly
to the front again;
nothing could keep it in the background many minutes on a stretch.

The couple took up the puzzle of the absence of Tilbury's death-notice.

They discussed it every which way,
more or less hopefully,
but they had
to finish where they began,
and concede that the only really sane explanation of the absence of the notice must be--and without doubt was--that Tilbury was not dead.

There was something sad about it,
something even a little unfair,
maybe,
but there it was,
and had
to be put up with.

They were agreed as
to that.


to Sally it seemed a strangely inscrutable dispensation;
more inscrutable than usual,
he thought;
one of the most unnecessary inscrutable he could call
to mind,
in fact--and said so,

with some feeling;
but if he was hoping
to draw Aleck he failed;
she reserved her opinion,
if she had one;
she had not the habit of taking injudicious risks in any market,
worldly or other. The pair must wait
for next week's paper--Tilbury had evidently postponed.

That was their thought and their decision.

So they put the subject away and went about their affairs again
with as good heart as they could.

Now,
if they had but known it,
they had been wronging Tilbury all the time.

Tilbury had kept faith,
kept it
to the letter;
he was dead,
he had died
to schedule.

He was dead more than four days now and used
to it;
entirely dead,
perfectly dead,
as dead as any other new person in the cemetery;
dead in abundant time
to get in
to that week's SAGAMORE,
too,
and only shut out by an accident;
an accident which could not happen
to a metropolitan journal,
but which happens easily
to a poor little village rag like the SAGAMORE.

On this occasion,
just as the editorial page was being locked up,
a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter's Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors,
and the stickful of rather chilly regret over Tilbury's translation got crowded out
to make room
for the editor's frantic gratitude. On its way
to the standing-galley Tilbury's notice got pied.

Otherwise it would have gone in
to some future edition,

for WEEKLY SAGAMORES do not waste "live" matter,
and in their galleys "live" matter is immortal,
unless a pi accident intervenes.

But a thing that gets pied is dead,
and
for such there is no resurrection;
its chance of seeing print is gone,
forever and ever.

And so,
let Tilbury like it or not,
let him rave in his grave
to his fill,
no matter--no mention of his death would ever see the light in the WEEKLY SAGAMORE.


CHAPTER IV
Five weeks drifted tediously along.

The SAGAMORE arrived regularly on the Saturdays,
but never once contained a mention of Tilbury Foster.

Sally's patience broke down at this point,
and he said,
resentfully:
"Damn his livers,
he's immortal!"
Aleck give him a very severe rebuke,
and added
with icy solemnity:
"How would you feel if you were suddenly cut out just after such an awful remark had escaped out of you?"


Without sufficient reflection Sally responded:
"I'd feel I was lucky I hadn't got caught
with it IN me. "


Pride had forced him
to say something,
and as he could not think of any rational thing
to say he flung that out.

Then he stole a base-- as he called it--that is,
slipped from the presence,

to keep from being brayed in his wife's discussion-mortar. Six months came and went.

The SAGAMORE was still silent about Tilbury.

Meantime,
Sally had several times thrown out a feeler--that is,
a hint that he would like
to know.

Aleck had ignored the hints.

Sally now resolved
to brace up and risk a frontal attack.

So he squarely proposed
to disguise himself and go
to Tilbury's village and surreptitiously find out as
to the prospects.

Aleck put her foot on the dangerous project
with energy and decision.

She said:
"What can you be thinking of?

You do keep my hands full!

You have
to be watched all the time,
like a little child,

to keep you from walking in
to the fire.

You'll stay right where you are!"
"Why,
Aleck,
I could do it and not be found out--I'm certain of it. "


"Sally Foster,
don't you know you would have
to inquire around?"


"Of course,
but what of it?

Nobody would suspect who I was. "


"Oh,
listen
to the man!

Some day you've got
to prove
to the executors that you never inquired.

What then?"


He had forgotten that detail.

He didn't reply;
there wasn't anything
to say.

Aleck added:
"Now then,
drop that notion out of your mind,
and don't ever meddle
with it again.

Tilbury set that trap
for you.

Don't you know it's a trap?

He is on the watch,
and fully expecting you
to blunder in
to it.

Well,
he is going
to be disappointed--at least while I am on deck.

Sally!"
"Well?"


"As long as you live,
if it's a hundred years,
don't you ever make an inquiry.

Promise!"
"All right,"
with a sigh and reluctantly. Then Aleck softened and said:
"Don't be impatient.

We are prospering;
we can wait;
there is no hurry.

Our small dead-certain income increases all the time;
and as
to futures,
I have not made a mistake yet--they are piling up by the thousands and tens of thousands.

There is not another family in the state
with such prospects as ours.

Already we are beginning
to roll in eventual wealth.

You know that,
don't you?"


"Yes,
Aleck,
it's certainly so. "


"Then be grateful
for what God is doing
for us and stop worrying.

You do not believe we could have achieved these prodigious results without His special help and guidance,
do you?"


Hesitatingly,
"N-no,
I suppose not. "

Then,

with feeling and admiration,
"And yet,
when it comes
to judiciousness in watering a stock or putting up a hand
to skin Wall Street I don't give in that YOU need any outside amateur help,
if I do wish I--"
"Oh,
DO shut up!

I know you do not mean any harm or any irreverence,
poor boy,
but you can't seem
to open your mouth without letting out things
to make a person shudder.

You keep me in constant dread.


for you and
for all of us.

Once I had no fear of the thunder,
but now when I hear it I--"
Her voice broke,
and she began
to cry,
and could not finish.

The sight of this smote Sally
to the heart and he took her in his arms and petted her and comforted her and promised better conduct,
and upbraided himself and remorsefully pleaded
for forgiveness.

And he was in earnest,
and sorry
for what he had done and ready
for any sacrifice that could make up
for it. And so,
in privacy,
he thought long and deeply over the matter,
resolving
to do what should seem best.

It was easy
to PROMISE reform;
indeed he had already promised it.

But would that do any real good,
any permanent good?

No,
it would be but temporary--he knew his weakness,
and confessed it
to himself
with sorrow--he could not keep the promise.

Something surer and better must be devised;
and he devised it.

At cost of precious money which he had long been saving up,
shilling by shilling,
he put a lightning-rod on the house. At a subsequent time he relapsed. What miracles habit can do!

and how quickly and how easily habits are acquired--both trifling habits and habits which profoundly change us.

If by accident we wake at two in the morning a couple of nights in succession,
we have need
to be uneasy,

for another repetition can turn the accident in
to a habit;
and a month's dallying
with whiskey-- but we all know these commonplace facts. The castle-building habit,
the day-dreaming habit--how it grows!

what a luxury it becomes;
how we fly
to its enchantments at every idle moment,
how we revel in them,
steep our souls in them,
intoxicate ourselves
with their beguiling fantasies--oh yes,
and how soon and how easily our dram life and our material life become so intermingled and so fused together that we can't quite tell which is which,
any more. By and by Aleck subscribed
to a Chicago daily and
for the WALL STREET POINTER.


with an eye single
to finance she studied these as diligently all the week as she studied her Bible Sundays.

Sally was lost in admiration,

to note
with what swift and sure strides her genius and judgment developed and expanded in the forecasting and handling of the securities of both the material and spiritual markets.

He was proud of her nerve and daring in exploiting worldly stocks,
and just as proud of her conservative caution in working her spiritual deals.

He noted that she never lost her head in either case;
that
with a splendid courage she often went short on worldly futures,
but heedfully drew the line there--she was always long on the others.

Her policy was quite sane and simple,
as she explained it
to him:

what she put in
to earthly futures was
for speculation,
what she put in
to spiritual futures was
for investment;
she was willing
to go in
to the one on a margin,
and take chances,
but in the case of the other,
"margin her no margins"--she wanted
to cash in a hundred cents per dollar's worth,
and have the stock transferred on the books. It took but a very few months
to educate Aleck's imagination and Sally's.

Each day's training added something
to the spread and effectiveness of the two machines.

As a consequence,
Aleck made imaginary money much faster than at first she had dreamed of making it,
and Sally's competency in spending the overflow of it kept pace
with the strain put upon it,
right along.

In the beginning,
Aleck had given the coal speculation a twelvemonth in which
to materialize,
and had been loath
to grant that this term might possibly be shortened by nine months.

But that was the feeble work,
the nursery work,
of a financial fancy that had had no teaching,
no experience,
no practice.

These aids soon came,
then that nine months vanished,
and the imaginary ten-thousand-dollar investment came marching home
with three hundred per cent.

profit on its back!
It was a great day
for the pair of Fosters.

They were speechless
for joy.

Also speechless
for another reason:

after much watching of the market,
Aleck had lately,

with fear and trembling,
made her first flyer on a "margin," using the remaining twenty thousand of the bequest in this risk.

In her mind's eye she had seen it climb,
point by point--always
with a chance that the market would break-- until at last her anxieties were too great
for further endurance-- she being new
to the margin business and unhardened,
as yet--and she gave her imaginary broker an imaginary order by imaginary telegraph
to sell.

She said forty thousand dollars' profit was enough.

The sale was made on the very day that the coal venture had returned
with its rich freight.

As I have said,
the couple were speechless.

they sat dazed and blissful that night,
trying
to realize that they were actually worth a hundred thousand dollars in clean,
imaginary cash.

Yet so it was. It was the last time that ever Aleck was afraid of a margin;
at least afraid enough
to let it break her sleep and pale her cheek
to the extent that this first experience in that line had done. Indeed it was a memorable night.

Gradually the realization that they were rich sank securely home in
to the souls of the pair,
then they began
to place the money.

If we could have looked out through the eyes of these dreamers,
we should have seen their tidy little wooden house disappear,
and two-story brick
with a cast-iron fence in front of it take its place;
we should have seen a three-globed gas-chandelier grow down from the parlor ceiling;
we should have seen the homely rag carpet turn
to noble Brussels,
a dollar and a half a yard;
we should have seen the plebeian fireplace vanish away and a recherch'e,
big base-burner
with isinglass windows take position and spread awe around.

And we should have seen other things,
too;
among them the buggy,
the lap-robe,
the stove-pipe hat,
and so on. From that time forth,
although the daughters and the neighbors saw only the same old wooden house there,
it was a two-story brick
to Aleck and Sally and not a night went by that Aleck did not worry about the imaginary gas-bills,
and get
for all comfort Sally's reckless retort:

"What of it?

We can afford it. "


Before the couple went
to bed,
that first night that they were rich,
they had decided that they must celebrate.

They must give a party-- that was the idea.

But how
to explain it--
to the daughters and the neighbors?

They could not expose the fact that they were rich.

Sally was willing,
even anxious,

to do it;
but Aleck kept her head and would not allow it.

She said that although the money was as good as in,
it would be as well
to wait until it was actually in.

On that policy she took her stand,
and would not budge.

The great secret must be kept,
she said--kept from the daughters and everybody else. The pair were puzzled.

They must celebrate,
they were determined
to celebrate,
but since the secret must be kept,
what could they celebrate?

No birthdays were due
for three months.

Tilbury wasn't available,
evidently he was going
to live forever;
what the nation COULD they celebrate?

That was Sally's way of putting it;
and he was getting impatient,
too,
and harassed.

But at last he hit it--just by sheer inspiration,
as it seemed
to him-- and all their troubles were gone in a moment;
they would celebrate the Discovery of America.

A splendid idea!
Aleck was almost too proud of Sally
for words--she said SHE never would have thought of it.

But Sally,
although he was bursting
with delight in the compliment and
with wonder at himself,
tried not
to let on,
and said it wasn't really anything,
anybody could have done it.

Whereat Aleck,

with a prideful toss of her happy head,
said:
"Oh,
certainly!

Anybody could--oh,
anybody!

Hosannah Dilkins,

for instance!

Or maybe Adelbert Peanut--oh,
DEAR--yes!

Well,
I'd like
to see them try it,
that's all.

Dear-me-suz,
if they could think of the discovery of a forty-acre island it's more than _I_ believe they could;
and as
for the whole continent,
why,
Sally Foster,
you know perfectly well it would strain the livers and lights out of them and THEN they couldn't!"
The dear woman,
she knew he had talent;
and if affection made her over-estimate the size of it a little,
surely it was a sweet and gentle crime,
and forgivable
for its source's sake.


CHAPTER V
The celebration went off well.

The friends were all present,
both the young and the old.

Among the young were Flossie and Gracie Peanut and their brother Adelbert,
who was a rising young journeyman tinner,
also Hosannah Dilkins,
Jr. ,
journeyman plasterer,
just out of his apprenticeship.


for many months Adelbert and Hosannah had been showing interest in Gwendolen and Clytemnestra Foster,
and the parents of the girls had noticed this
with private satisfaction.

But they suddenly realized now that that feeling had passed.

They recognized that the changed financial conditions had raised up a social bar between their daughters and the young mechanics.

The daughters could now look higher--and must.

Yes,
must.

They need marry nothing below the grade of lawyer or merchant;
poppa and momma would take care of this;
there must be no m'esalliances. However,
these thinkings and projects of their were private,
and did not show on the surface,
and therefore threw no shadow upon the celebration.

What showed upon the surface was a serene and lofty contentment and a dignity of carriage and gravity of deportment which compelled the admiration and likewise the wonder of the company.

All noticed it and all commented upon it,
but none was able
to divine the secret of it.

It was a marvel and a mystery.

Three several persons remarked,
without suspecting what clever shots they were making:
"It's as if they'd come in
to property. "


That was just it,
indeed. Most mothers would have taken hold of the matrimonial matter in the old regulation way;
they would have given the girls a talking to,
of a solemn sort and untactful--a lecture calculated
to defeat its own purpose,
by producing tears and secret rebellion;
and the said mothers would have further damaged the business by requesting the young mechanics
to discontinue their attentions.

But this mother was different.

She was practical.

She said nothing
to any of the young people concerned,
nor
to any one else except Sally.

He listened
to her and understood;
understood and admired.

He said:
"I get the idea.

Instead of finding fault
with the samples on view,
thus hurting feelings and obstructing trade without occasion,
you merely offer a higher class of goods
for the money,
and leave nature
to take her course.

It's wisdom,
Aleck,
solid wisdom,
and sound as a nut.

Who's your fish?

Have you nominated him yet?"


No,
she hadn't.

They must look the market over--which they did.


to start with,
they considered and discussed Brandish,
rising young lawyer,
and Fulton,
rising young dentist.

Sally must invite them
to dinner.

But not right away;
there was no hurry,
Aleck said.

Keep an eye on the pair,
and wait;
nothing would be lost by going slowly in so important a matter. It turned out that this was wisdom,
too;

for inside of three weeks Aleck made a wonderful strike which swelled her imaginary hundred thousand
to four hundred thousand of the same quality.

She and Sally were in the clouds that evening.


for the first time they introduced champagne at dinner.

Not real champagne,
but plenty real enough
for the amount of imagination expended on it.

It was Sally that did it,
and Aleck weakly submitted.

At bottom both were troubled and ashamed,

for he was a high-up Son of Temperance,
and at funerals wore an apron which no dog could look upon and retain his reason and his opinion;
and she was a W.

C.

T.

U. ,

with all that that implies of boiler-iron virtue and unendurable holiness.

But there is was;
the pride of riches was beginning its disintegrating work.

They had lived
to prove,
once more,
a sad truth which had been proven many times before in the world:

that whereas principle is a great and noble protection against showy and degrading vanities and vices,
poverty is worth six of it.

More than four hundred thousand dollars
to the good.

They took up the matrimonial matter again.

Neither the dentist nor the lawyer was mentioned;
there was no occasion,
they were out of the running.

Disqualified.

They discussed the son of the pork-packer and the son of the village banker.

But finally,
as in the previous case,
they concluded
to wait and think,
and go cautiously and sure. Luck came their way again.

Aleck,
ever watchful saw a great and risky chance,
and took a daring flyer.

A time of trembling,
of doubt,
of awful uneasiness followed,

for non-success meant absolute ruin and nothing short of it.

Then came the result,
and Aleck,
faint
with joy,
could hardly control her voice when she said:
"The suspense is over,
Sally--and we are worth a cold million!"
Sally wept
for gratitude,
and said:
"Oh,
Electra,
jewel of women,
darling of my heart,
we are free at last,
we roll in wealth,
we need never scrimp again.

it's a case
for Veuve Cliquot!" and he got out a pint of spruce-beer and made sacrifice,
he saying "Damn the expense," and she rebuking him gently
with reproachful but humid and happy eyes. They shelved the pork-packer's son and the banker's son,
and sat down
to consider the Governor's son and the son of the Congressman.


CHAPTER VI
It were a weariness
to follow in detail the leaps and bounds the Foster fictitious finances took from this time forth.

It was marvelous,
it was dizzying,
it was dazzling.

Everything Aleck touched turned
to fairy gold,
and heaped itself glittering toward the firmament.

Millions upon millions poured in,
and still the mighty stream flowed thundering along,
still its vast volume increased.

Five millions-- ten millions--twenty--thirty--was there never
to be an end?
Two years swept by in a splendid delirium,
the intoxicated Fosters scarcely noticing the flight of time.

They were now worth three hundred million dollars;
they were in every board of directors of every prodigious combine in the country;
and still as time drifted along,
the millions went on piling up,
five at a time,
ten at a time,
as fast as they could tally them off,
almost.

The three hundred double itself--then doubled again--and yet again--and yet once more. Twenty-four hundred millions!
The business was getting a little confused.

It was necessary
to take an account of stock,
and straighten it out.

The Fosters knew it,
they felt it,
they realized that it was imperative;
but they also knew that
to do it properly and perfectly the task must be carried
to a finish without a break when once it was begun.

A ten-hours' job;
and where could THEY find ten leisure hours in a bunch?

Sally was selling pins and sugar and calico all day and every day;
Aleck was cooking and washing dishes and sweeping and making beds all day and every day,

with none
to help,

for the daughters were being saved up
for high society.

The Fosters knew there was one way
to get the ten hours,
and only one.

Both were ashamed
to name it;
each waited
for the other
to do it.

Finally Sally said:
"Somebody's got
to give in.

It's up
to me.

Consider that I've named it--never mind pronouncing it out aloud. "


Aleck colored,
but was grateful.

Without further remark,
they fell.

Fell,
and--broke the Sabbath.


for that was their only free ten-hour stretch.

It was but another step in the downward path.

Others would follow.

Vast wealth has temptations which fatally and surely undermine the moral structure of persons not habituated
to its possession. They pulled down the shades and broke the Sabbath.


with hard and patient labor they overhauled their holdings and listed them.

And a long-drawn procession of formidable names it was!

Starting
with the Railway Systems,
Steamer Lines,
Standard Oil,
Ocean Cables,
Diluted Telegraph,
and all the rest,
and winding up
with Klondike,
De Beers,
Tammany Graft,
and Shady Privileges in the Post-office Department. Twenty-four hundred millions,
and all safely planted in Good Things,
gilt-edged and interest-bearing.

Income,
$120,000,000 a year.

Aleck fetched a long purr of soft delight,
and said:
"Is it enough?"


"It is,
Aleck. "


"What shall we do?"


"Stand pat. "


"Retire from business?"


"That's it. "


"I am agreed.

The good work is finished;
we will take a long rest and enjoy the money. "


"Good!

Aleck!"
"Yes,
dear?"


"How much of the income can we spend?"


"The whole of it. "


It seemed
to her husband that a ton of chains fell from his limbs.

He did not say a word;
he was happy beyond the power of speech. After that,
they broke the Sabbaths right along as fast as they turned up.

It is the first wrong step that counts.

Every Sunday they put in the whole day,
after morning service,
on inventions-- inventions of ways
to spend the money.

They got
to continuing this delicious dissipation until past midnight;
and at every s'eance Aleck lavished millions upon great charities and religious enterprises,
and Sally lavished like sums upon matters
to which (at first) he gave definite names.

Only at first.

Later the names gradually lost sharpness of outline,
and eventually faded in
to "sundries," thus becoming entirely--but safely--undescriptive.


for Sally was crumbling.

The placing of these millions added seriously and most uncomfortably
to the family expenses--in tallow candles.


for a while Aleck was worried.

Then,
after a little,
she ceased
to worry,

for the occasion of it was gone.

She was pained,
she was grieved,
she was ashamed;
but she said nothing,
and so became an accessory.

Sally was taking candles;
he was robbing the store.

It is ever thus.

Vast wealth,

to the person unaccustomed
to it,
is a bane;
it eats in
to the flesh and bone of his morals.

When the Fosters were poor,
they could have been trusted
with untold candles.

But now they--but let us not dwell upon it.

From candles
to apples is but a step:

Sally got
to taking apples;
then soap;
then maple-sugar;
then canned goods;
then crockery.

How easy it is
to go from bad
to worse,
when once we have started upon a downward course!
Meantime,
other effects had been milestoning the course of the Fosters' splendid financial march.

The fictitious brick dwelling had given place
to an imaginary granite one
with a checker-board mansard roof;
in time this one disappeared and gave place
to a still grander home--and so on and so on.

Mansion after mansion,
made of air,
rose,
higher,
broader,
finer,
and each in its turn vanished away;
until now in these latter great days,
our dreamers were in fancy housed,
in a distant region,
in a sumptuous vast palace which looked out from a leafy summit upon a noble prospect of vale and river and receding hills steeped in tinted mists-- and all private,
all the property of the dreamers;
a palace swarming
with liveried servants,
and populous
with guests of fame and power,
hailing from all the world's capitals,
foreign and domestic. This palace was far,
far away toward the rising sun,
immeasurably remote,
astronomically remote,
in Newport,
Rhode Island,
Holy Land of High Society,
ineffable Domain of the American Aristocracy.

As a rule they spent a part of every Sabbath--after morning service-- in this sumptuous home,
the rest of it they spent in Europe,
or in dawdling around in their private yacht.

Six days of sordid and plodding fact life at home on the ragged edge of Lakeside and straitened means,
the seventh in Fairlyand--such had been their program and their habit. In their sternly restricted fact life they remained as of old-- plodding,
diligent,
careful,
practical,
economical.

They stuck loyally
to the little Presbyterian Church,
and labored faithfully in its interests and stood by its high and tough doctrines
with all their mental and spiritual energies.

But in their dream life they obeyed the invitations of their fancies,
whatever they might be,
and howsoever the fancies might change.

Aleck's fancies were not very capricious,
and not frequent,
but Sally's scattered a good deal.

Aleck,
in her dream life,
went over
to the Episcopal camp,
on account of its large official titles;
next she became High-church on account of the candles and shows;
and next she naturally changed
to Rome,
where there were cardinals and more candles.

But these excursions were a nothing
to Sally's.

His dream life was a glowing and continuous and persistent excitement,
and he kept every part of it fresh and sparkling by frequent changes,
the religious part along
with the rest.

He worked his religions hard,
and changed them
with his shirt. The liberal spendings of the Fosters upon their fancies began early in their prosperities,
and grew in prodigality step by step
with their advancing fortunes.

In time they became truly enormous.

Aleck built a university or two per Sunday;
also a hospital or two;
also a Rowton hotel or so;
also a batch of churches;
now and then a cathedral;
and once,

with untimely and ill-chosen playfulness,
Sally said,
"It was a cold day when she didn't ship a cargo of missionaries
to persuade unreflecting Chinamen
to trade off twenty-four carat Confucianism
for counterfeit Christianity. "


This rude and unfeeling language hurt Aleck
to the heart,
and she went from the presence crying.

That spectacle went
to his own heart,
and in his pain and shame he would have given worlds
to have those unkind words back.

She had uttered no syllable of reproach-- and that cut him.

Not one suggestion that he look at his own record-- and she could have made,
oh,
so many,
and such blistering ones!

Her generous silence brought a swift revenge,

for it turned his thoughts upon himself,
it summoned before him a spectral procession,
a moving vision of his life as he had been leading it these past few years of limitless prosperity,
and as he sat there reviewing it his cheeks burned and his soul was steeped in humiliation.

Look at her life--how fair it was,
and tending ever upward;
and look at his own--how frivolous,
how charged
with mean vanities,
how selfish,
how empty,
how ignoble!

And its trend--never upward,
but downward,
ever downward!
He instituted comparisons between her record and his own.

He had found fault
with her--so he mused--HE!

And what could he say
for himself?

When she built her first church what was he doing?

Gathering other blas'e multimillionaires in
to a Poker Club;
defiling his own palace
with it;
losing hundreds of thousands
to it at every sitting,
and sillily vain of the admiring notoriety it made
for him.

When she was building her first university,
what was he doing?

Polluting himself
with a gay and dissipated secret life in the company of other fast bloods,
multimillionaires in money and paupers in character.

When she was building her first foundling asylum,
what was he doing?

Alas!

When she was projecting her noble Society
for the Purifying of the Sex,
what was he doing?

Ah,
what,
indeed!

When she and the W.

C.

T.

U.

and the Woman
with the Hatchet,
moving
with resistless march,
were sweeping the fatal bottle from the land,
what was he doing?

Getting drunk three times a day.

When she,
builder of a hundred cathedrals,
was being gratefully welcomed and blest in papal Rome and decorated
with the Golden Rose which she had so honorably earned,
what was he doing?

Breaking the bank at Monte Carlo. He stopped.

He could go no farther;
he could not bear the rest.

He rose up,

with a great resolution upon his lips:

this secret life should be revealing,
and confessed;
no longer would he live it clandestinely,
he would go and tell her All. And that is what he did.

He told her All;
and wept upon her bosom;
wept,
and moaned,
and begged
for her forgiveness.

It was a profound shock,
and she staggered under the blow,
but he was her own,
the core of her heart,
the blessing of her eyes,
her all in all,
she could deny him nothing,
and she forgave him.

She felt that he could never again be quite
to her what he had been before;
she knew that he could only repent,
and not reform;
yet all morally defaced and decayed as he was,
was he not her own,
her very own,
the idol of her deathless worship?

She said she was his serf,
his slave,
and she opened her yearning heart and took him in.


CHAPTER VII
One Sunday afternoon some time after this they were sailing the summer seas in their dream yacht,
and reclining in lazy luxury under the awning of the after-deck.

There was silence,

for each was busy
with his own thoughts.

These seasons of silence had insensibly been growing more and more frequent of late;
the old nearness and cordiality were waning.

Sally's terrible revelation had done its work;
Aleck had tried hard
to drive the memory of it out of her mind,
but it would not go,
and the shame and bitterness of it were poisoning her gracious dream life.

She could see now (on Sundays) that her husband was becoming a bloated and repulsive Thing.

She could not close her eyes
to this,
and in these days she no longer looked at him,
Sundays,
when she could help it. But she--was she herself without blemish?

Alas,
she knew she was not.

She was keeping a secret from him,
she was acting dishonorably toward him,
and many a pang it was costing her.

SHE WAS BREAKING THE COMPACT,
AND CONCEALING IT FROM HIM.

Under strong temptation she had gone in
to business again;
she had risked their whole fortune in a purchase of all the railway systems and coal and steel companies in the country on a margin,
and she was now trembling,
every Sabbath hour,
lest through some chance word of hers he find it out.

In her misery and remorse
for this treachery she could not keep her heart from going out
to him in pity;
she was filled
with compunctions
to see him lying there,
drunk and contented,
and ever suspecting.

Never suspecting--trusting her
with a perfect and pathetic trust,
and she holding over him by a thread a possible calamity of so devastating a--
"SAY--Aleck?"


The interrupting words brought her suddenly
to herself.

She was grateful
to have that persecuting subject from her thoughts,
and she answered,

with much of the old-time tenderness in her tone:
"Yes,
dear. "


"Do you know,
Aleck,
I think we are making a mistake--that is,
you are.

I mean about the marriage business. "

He sat up,
fat and froggy and benevolent,
like a bronze Buddha,
and grew earnest.

"Consider--it's more than five years.

You've continued the same policy from the start:


with every rise,
always holding on
for five points higher.

Always when I think we are going
to have some weddings,
you see a bigger thing ahead,
and I undergo another disappointment.

_I_ think you are too hard
to please.

Some day we'll get left.

First,
we turned down the dentist and the lawyer.

That was all right-- it was sound.

Next,
we turned down the banker's son and the pork-butcher's heir--right again,
and sound.

Next,
we turned down the Congressman's son and the Governor's--right as a trivet,
I confess it.

Next the Senator's son and the son of the Vice-President of the United States--perfectly right,
there's no permanency about those little distinctions.

Then you went
for the aristocracy;
and I thought we had struck oil at last--yes.

We would make a plunge at the Four Hundred,
and pull in some ancient lineage,
venerable,
holy,
ineffable,
mellow
with the antiquity of a hundred and fifty years,
disinfected of the ancestral odors of salt-cod and pelts all of a century ago,
and unsmirched by a day's work since,
and then!

why,
then the marriages,
of course.

But no,
along comes a pair a real aristocrats from Europe,
and straightway you throw over the half-breeds.

It was awfully discouraging,
Aleck!

Since then,
what a procession!

You turned down the baronets
for a pair of barons;
you turned down the barons
for a pair of viscounts;
the viscounts
for a pair of earls;
the earls
for a pair of marquises;
the marquises
for a brace of dukes.

NOW,
Aleck,
cash in!-- you've played the limit.

You've got a job lot of four dukes under the hammer;
of four nationalities;
all sound in the wind and limb and pedigree,
all bankrupt and in debt up
to the ears.

They come high,
but we can afford it.

Come,
Aleck,
don't delay any longer,
don't keep up the suspense:

take the whole lay-out,
and leave the girls
to choose!"
Aleck had been smiling blandly and contentedly all through this arraignment of her marriage policy,
a pleasant light,
as of triumph
with perhaps a nice surprise peeping out through it,
rose in her eyes,
and she said,
as calmly as she could:
"Sally,
what would you say to--ROYALTY?"


Prodigious!

Poor man,
it knocked him silly,
and he fell over the garboard-strake and barked his shin on the cat-heads.

He was dizzy
for a moment,
then he gathered himself up and limped over and sat down by his wife and beamed his old-time admiration and affection upon her in floods,
out of his bleary eyes. "

By George!" he said,
fervently,
"Aleck,
you ARE great--the greatest woman in the whole earth!

I can't ever learn the whole size of you.

I can't ever learn the immeasurable deeps of you.

Here I've been considering myself qualified
to criticize your game.

_I!_ Why,
if I had stopped
to think,
I'd have known you had a lone hand up your sleeve.

Now,
dear heart,
I'm all red-hot impatience--tell me about it!"
The flattered and happy woman put her lips
to his ear and whispered a princely name.

It made him catch his breath,
it lit his face
with exultation. "

Land!" he said,
"it's a stunning catch!

He's got a gambling-hall,
and a graveyard,
and a bishop,
and a cathedral--all his very own.

And all gilt-edged five-hundred-per-cent.

stock,
every detail of it;
the tidiest little property in Europe.

and that graveyard-- it's the selectest in the world:

none but suicides admitted;
YES,
sir,
and the free-list suspended,
too,
ALL the time.

There isn't much land in the principality,
but there's enough:

eight hundred acres in the graveyard and forty-two outside.

It's a SOVEREIGNTY--that's the main thing;
LAND'S nothing.

There's plenty land,
Sahara's drugged
with it. "


Aleck glowed;
she was profoundly happy.

She said:
"Think of it,
Sally--it is a family that has never married outside the Royal and Imperial Houses of Europe:

our grandchildren will sit upon thrones!"
"True as you live,
Aleck--and bear scepters,
too;
and handle them as naturally and nonchantly as I handle a yardstick.

it's a grand catch,
Aleck.

He's corralled,
is he?

Can't get away?

You didn't take him on a margin?"


"No.

Trust me
for that.

He's not a liability,
he's an asset.

So is the other one. "


"Who is it,
Aleck?"


"His Royal Highness Sigismund-Siegfriend-Lauenfeld-Dinkelspiel-Schwartzenberg Blutwurst,
Hereditary Grant Duke of Katzenyammer. "


"No!

You can't mean it!"
"It's as true as I'm sitting here,
I give you my word," she answered. His cup was full,
and he hugged her
to his heart
with rapture,
saying:
"How wonderful it all seems,
and how beautiful!

It's one of the oldest and noblest of the three hundred and sixty-four ancient German principalities,
and one of the few that was allowed
to retain its royal estate when Bismarck got done trimming them.

I know that farm,
I've been there.

It's got a rope-walk and a candle-factory and an army.

Standing army.

Infantry and cavalry.

Three soldier and a horse.

Aleck,
it's been a long wait,
and full of heartbreak and hope deferred,
but God knows I am happy now.

Happy,
and grateful
to you,
my own,
who have done it all.

When is it
to be?"


"Next Sunday. "


"Good.

And we'll want
to do these weddings up in the very regalest style that's going.

It's properly due
to the royal quality of the parties of the first part.

Now as I understand it,
there is only one kind of marriage that is sacred
to royalty,
exclusive
to royalty:

it's the morganatic. "


"What do they call it that for,
Sally?"


"I don't know;
but anyway it's royal,
and royal only. "


"Then we will insist upon it.

More--I will compel it.

It is morganatic marriage or none. "


"That settles it!" said Sally,
rubbing his hands
with delight.

"And it will be the very first in America.

Aleck,
it will make Newport sick. "


Then they fell silent,
and drifted away upon their dream wings
to the far regions of the earth
to invite all the crowned heads and their families and provide gratis transportation
to them.


CHAPTER VIII
During three days the couple walked upon air,

with their heads in the clouds.

They were but vaguely conscious of their surroundings;
they saw all things dimly,
as through a veil;
they were steeped in dreams,
often they did not hear when they were spoken to;
they often did not understand when they heard;
they answered confusedly or at random;
Sally sold molasses by weight,
sugar by the yard,
and furnished soap when asked
for candles,
and Aleck put the cat in the wash and fed milk
to the soiled linen.

Everybody was stunned and amazed,
and went about muttering,
"What CAN be the matter
with the Fosters?"


Three days.

Then came events!

Things had taken a happy turn,
and
for forty-eight hours Aleck's imaginary corner had been booming.

Up--up--still up!

Cost point was passed.

Still up--and up-- and up!

Cost point was passed.

STill up--and up--and up!

Five points above cost--then ten--fifteen--twenty!

Twenty points cold profit on the vast venture,
now,
and Aleck's imaginary brokers were shouting frantically by imaginary long-distance,
"Sell!

sell!


for Heaven's sake SELL!"
She broke the splendid news
to Sally,
and he,
too,
said,
"Sell!

sell--oh,
don't make a blunder,
now,
you own the earth!-- sell,
sell!" But she set her iron will and lashed it amidships,
and said she would hold on
for five points more if she died
for it. It was a fatal resolve.

The very next day came the historic crash,
the record crash,
the devastating crash,
when the bottom fell out of Wall Street,
and the whole body of gilt-edged stocks dropped ninety-five points in five hours,
and the multimillionaire was seen begging his bread in the Bowery.

Aleck sternly held her grip and "put up" ass long as she could,
but at last there came a call which she was powerless
to meet,
and her imaginary brokers sold her out.

Then,
and not till then,
the man in her was vanished,
and the woman in her resumed sway.

She put her arms about her husband's neck and wept,
saying:
"I am
to blame,
do not forgive me,
I cannot bear it.

We are paupers!

Paupers,
and I am so miserable.

The weddings will never come off;
all that is past;
we could not even buy the dentist,
now. "


A bitter reproach was on Sally's tongue:

"I BEGGED you
to sell,
but you--" He did not say it;
he had not the heart
to add a hurt
to that broken and repentant spirit.

A nobler thought came
to him and he said:
"Bear up,
my Aleck,
all is not lost!

You really never invested a penny of my uncle's bequest,
but only its unmaterialized future;
what we have lost was only the incremented harvest from that future by your incomparable financial judgment and sagacity.

Cheer up,
banish these griefs;
we still have the thirty thousand untouched;
and
with the experience which you have acquired,
think what you will be able
to do
with it in a couple years!

The marriages are not off,
they are only postponed. "


These are blessed words.

Aleck saw how true they were,
and their influence was electric;
her tears ceased
to flow,
and her great spirit rose
to its full stature again.


with flashing eye and grateful heart,
and
with hand uplifted in pledge and prophecy,
she said:
"Now and here I proclaim--"
But she was interrupted by a visitor.

It was the editor and proprietor of the SAGAMORE.

He had happened in
to Lakeside
to pay a duty-call upon an obscure grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her pilgrimage,
and
with the idea of combining business
with grief he had looked up the Fosters,
who had been so absorbed in other things
for the past four years that they neglected
to pay up their subscription.

Six dollars due.

No visitor could have been more welcome.

He would know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances might be getting
to be,
cemeterywards.

They could,
of course,
ask no questions,

for that would squelch the bequest,
but they could nibble around on the edge of the subject and hope
for results.

The scheme did not work.

The obtuse editor did not know he was being nibbled at;
but at last,
chance accomplished what art had failed in.

In illustration of something under discussion which required the help of metaphor,
the editor said:
"Land,
it's a tough as Tilbury Foster!--as WE say. "


It was sudden,
and it made the Fosters jump.

The editor noticed,
and said,
apologetically:
"No harm intended,
I assure you.

It's just a saying;
just a joke,
you know--nothing of it.

Relation of yours?"


Sally crowded his burning eagerness down,
and answered
with all the indifference he could assume:
"I--well,
not that I know of,
but we've heard of him. "

The editor was thankful,
and resumed his composure.

Sally added:

"Is he-- is he--well?"


"Is he WELL?

Why,
bless you he's in Sheol these five years!"
The Fosters were trembling
with grief,
though it felt like joy.

Sally said,
non-committally--and tentatively:
"Ah,
well,
such is life,
and none can escape--not even the rich are spared. "


The editor laughed. "

If you are including Tilbury," said he,
"it don't apply.

HE hadn't a cent;
the town had
to bury him. "


The Fosters sat petrified
for two minutes;
petrified and cold.

Then,
white-faced and weak-voiced,
Sally asked:
"Is it true?

Do you KNOW it
to be true?"


"Well,
I should say!

I was one of the executors.

He hadn't anything
to leave but a wheelbarrow,
and he left that
to me.

It hadn't any wheel,
and wasn't any good.

Still,
it was something,
and so,

to square up,
I scribbled off a sort of a little obituarial send-off
for him,
but it got crowded out. "


The Fosters were not listening--their cup was full,
it could contain no more.

They sat
with bowed heads,
dead
to all things but the ache at their hearts. An hour later.

Still they sat there,
bowed,
motionless,
silent,
the visitor long ago gone,
they unaware. Then they stirred,
and lifted their heads wearily,
and gazed at each other wistfully,
dreamily,
dazed;
then presently began
to twaddle
to each other in a wandering and childish way.

At intervals they lapsed in
to silences,
leaving a sentence unfinished,
seemingly either unaware of it or losing their way.

Sometimes,
when they woke out of these silences they had a dim and transient consciousness that something had happened
to their minds;
then
with a dumb and yearning solicitude they would softly caress each other's hands in mutual compassion and support,
as if they would say:

"I am near you,
I will not forsake you,
we will bear it together;
somewhere there is release and forgetfulness,
somewhere there is a grave and peace;
be patient,
it will not be long. "


They lived yet two years,
in mental night,
always brooding,
steeped in vague regrets and melancholy dreams,
never speaking;
then release came
to both on the same day. Toward the end the darkness lifted from Sally's ruined mind
for a moment,
and he said:
"Vast wealth,
acquired by sudden and unwholesome means,
is a snare.

It did us no good,
transient were its feverish pleasures;
yet
for its sake we threw away our sweet and simple and happy life-- let others take warning by us. "


He lay silent awhile,

with closed eyes;
then as the chill of death crept upward toward his heart,
and consciousness was fading from his brain,
he muttered:
"Money had brought him misery,
and he took his revenge upon us,
who had done him no harm.

He had his desire:


with base and cunning calculation he left us but thirty thousand,
knowing we would try
to increase it,
and ruin our life and break our hearts.

Without added expense he could have left us far above desire of increase,
far above the temptation
to speculate,
and a kinder soul would have done it;
but in him was no generous spirit,
no pity,
no--"
***
A DOG'S TALE
CHAPTER I
My father was a St.

Bernard,
my mother was a collie,
but I am a Presbyterian.

This is what my mother told me,
I do not know these nice distinctions myself.


to me they are only fine large words meaning nothing.

My mother had a fondness
for such;
she liked
to say them,
and see other dogs look surprised and envious,
as wondering how she got so much education.

But,
indeed,
it was not real education;
it was only show:

she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company,
and by going
with the children
to Sunday-school and listening there;
and whenever she heard a large word she said it over
to herself many times,
and so was able
to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood,
then she would get it off,
and surprise and distress them all,
from pocket-pup
to mastiff,
which rewarded her
for all her trouble.

If there was a stranger he was nearly sure
to be suspicious,
and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant.

And she always told him.

He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her;
so when she told him,
he was the one that looked ashamed,
whereas he had thought it was going
to be she.

The others were always waiting
for this,
and glad of it and proud of her,

for they knew what was going
to happen,
because they had had experience.

When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up
with admiration that it never occurred
to any dog
to doubt if it was the right one;
and that was natural,
because,

for one thing,
she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking,
and
for another thing,
where could they find out whether it was right or not?


for she was the only cultivated dog there was.

By and by,
when I was older,
she brought home the word Unintellectual,
one time,
and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings,
making much unhappiness and despondency;
and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked
for the meaning at eight different assemblages,
and flashed out a fresh definition every time,
which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture,
though I said nothing,
of course.

She had one word which she always kept on hand,
and ready,
like a life-preserver,
a kind of emergency word
to strap on when she was likely
to get washed overboard in a sudden way--that was the word Synonymous.

When she happened
to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone
to her dump-pile,
if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy
for a couple of minutes,
then he would come to,
and by that time she would be away down wind on another tack,
and not expecting anything;
so when he'd hail and ask her
to cash in,
I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment-- but only just a moment--then it would belly out taut and full,
and she would say,
as calm as a summer's day,
"It's synonymous
with supererogation," or some godless long reptile of a word like that,
and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack,
perfectly comfortable,
you know,
and leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed,
and the initiated slatting the floor
with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured
with a holy joy. And it was the same
with phrases.

She would drag home a whole phrase,
if it had a grand sound,
and play it six nights and two matinees,
and explain it a new way every time--which she had to,

for all she cared
for was the phrase;
she wasn't interested in what it meant,
and knew those dogs hadn't wit enough
to catch her,
anyway.

Yes,
she was a daisy!

She got so she wasn't afraid of anything,
she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures.

She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over;
and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched on
to another chestnut,
where,
of course,
it didn't fit and hadn't any point;
and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way,
while I could see that she was wondering
to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first heard it.

But no harm was done;
the others rolled and barked too,
privately ashamed of themselves
for not seeing the point,
and never suspecting that the fault was not
with them and there wasn't any
to see. You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character;
still,
she had virtues,
and enough
to make up,
I think.

She had a kind heart and gentle ways,
and never harbored resentments
for injuries done her,
but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them;
and she taught her children her kindly way,
and from her we learned also
to be brave and prompt in time of danger,
and not
to run away,
but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger,
and help him the best we could without stopping
to think what the cost might be
to us.

And she taught us not by words only,
but by example,
and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting.

Why,
the brave things she did,
the splendid things!

she was just a soldier;
and so modest about it--well,
you couldn't help admiring her,
and you couldn't help imitating her;
not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society.

So,
as you see,
there was more
to her than her education.


CHAPTER II
When I was well grown,
at last,
I was sold and taken away,
and I never saw her again.

She was broken-hearted,
and so was I,
and we cried;
but she comforted me as well as she could,
and said we were sent in
to this world
for a wise and good purpose,
and must do our duties without repining,
take our life as we might find it,
live it
for the best good of others,
and never mind about the results;
they were not our affair.

She said men who did like this would have a noble and beautiful reward by and by in another world,
and although we animals would not go there,

to do well and right without reward would give
to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity which in itself would be a reward.

She had gathered these things from time
to time when she had gone
to the Sunday-school
with the children,
and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had done
with those other words and phrases;
and she had studied them deeply,

for her good and ours.

One may see by this that she had a wise and thoughtful head,

for all there was so much lightness and vanity in it. So we said our farewells,
and looked our last upon each other through our tears;
and the last thing she said--keeping it
for the last
to make me remember it the better,
I think--was,
"In memory of me,
when there is a time of danger
to another do not think of yourself,
think of your mother,
and do as she would do. "


Do you think I could forget that?

No.


CHAPTER III
It was such a charming home!--my new one;
a fine great house,

with pictures,
and delicate decorations,
and rich furniture,
and no gloom anywhere,
but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up
with flooding sunshine;
and the spacious grounds around it,
and the great garden--oh,
greensward,
and noble trees,
and flowers,
no end!

And I was the same as a member of the family;
and they loved me,
and petted me,
and did not give me a new name,
but called me by my old one that was dear
to me because my mother had given it me-- Aileen Mavoureen.

She got it out of a song;
and the Grays knew that song,
and said it was a beautiful name. Mrs. Gray was thirty,
and so sweet and so lovely,
you cannot imagine it;
and Sadie was ten,
and just like her mother,
just a darling slender little copy of her,

with auburn tails down her back,
and short frocks;
and the baby was a year old,
and plump and dimpled,
and fond of me,
and never could get enough of hauling on my tail,
and hugging me,
and laughing out its innocent happiness;
and Mr. Gray was thirty-eight,
and tall and slender and handsome,
a little bald in front,
alert,
quick in his movements,
business-like,
prompt,
decided,
unsentimental,
and
with that kind of trim-chiseled face that just seems
to glint and sparkle
with frosty intellectuality!

He was a renowned scientist.

I do not know what the word means,
but my mother would know how
to use it and get effects.

She would know how
to depress a rat-terrier
with it and make a lap-dog look sorry he came.

But that is not the best one;
the best one was Laboratory.

My mother could organize a Trust on that one that would skin the tax-collars off the whole herd.

The laboratory was not a book,
or a picture,
or a place
to wash your hands in,
as the college president's dog said--no,
that is the lavatory;
the laboratory is quite different,
and is filled
with jars,
and bottles,
and electrics,
and wires,
and strange machines;
and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place,
and used the machines,
and discussed,
and made what they called experiments and discoveries;
and often I came,
too,
and stood around and listened,
and tried
to learn,

for the sake of my mother,
and in loving memory of her,
although it was a pain
to me,
as realizing what she was losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all;

for try as I might,
I was never able
to make anything out of it at all. Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's work-room and slept,
she gently using me
for a foot-stool,
knowing it pleased me,

for it was a caress;
other times I spent an hour in the nursery,
and got well tousled and made happy;
other times I watched by the crib there,
when the baby was asleep and the nurse out
for a few minutes on the baby's affairs;
other times I romped and raced through the grounds and the garden
with Sadie till we were tired out,
then slumbered on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read her book;
other times I went visiting among the neighbor dogs--
for there were some most pleasant ones not far away,
and one very handsome and courteous and graceful one,
a curly-haired Irish setter by the name of Robin Adair,
who was a Presbyterian like me,
and belonged
to the Scotch minister. The servants in our house were all kind
to me and were fond of me,
and so,
as you see,
mine was a pleasant life.

There could not be a happier dog that I was,
nor a gratefuler one.

I will say this
for myself,

for it is only the truth:

I tried in all ways
to do well and right,
and honor my mother's memory and her teachings,
and earn the happiness that had come
to me,
as best I could. By and by came my little puppy,
and then my cup was full,
my happiness was perfect.

It was the dearest little waddling thing,
and so smooth and soft and velvety,
and had such cunning little awkward paws,
and such affectionate eyes,
and such a sweet and innocent face;
and it made me so proud
to see how the children and their mother adored it,
and fondled it,
and exclaimed over every little wonderful thing it did.

It did seem
to me that life was just too lovely to--
Then came the winter.

One day I was standing a watch in the nursery.

That is
to say,
I was asleep on the bed.

The baby was asleep in the crib,
which was alongside the bed,
on the side next the fireplace.

It was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy stuff that you can see through.

The nurse was out,
and we two sleepers were alone.

A spark from the wood-fire was shot out,
and it lit on the slope of the tent.

I suppose a quiet interval followed,
then a scream from the baby awoke me,
and there was that tent flaming up toward the ceiling!

Before I could think,
I sprang
to the floor in my fright,
and in a second was half-way
to the door;
but in the next half-second my mother's farewell was sounding in my ears,
and I was back on the bed again. ,
I reached my head through the flames and dragged the baby out by the waist-band,
and tugged it along,
and we fell
to the floor together in a cloud of smoke;
I snatched a new hold,
and dragged the screaming little creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall,
and was still tugging away,
all excited and happy and proud,
when the master's voice shouted:
"Begone you cursed beast!" and I jumped
to save myself;
but he was furiously quick,
and chased me up,
striking furiously at me
with his cane,
I dodging this way and that,
in terror,
and at last a strong blow fell upon my left foreleg,
which made me shriek and fall,

for the moment,
helpless;
the came went up
for another blow,
but never descended,

for the nurse's voice rang wildly out,
"The nursery's on fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction,
and my other bones were saved. The pain was cruel,
but,
no matter,
I must not lose any time;
he might come back at any moment;
so I limped on three legs
to the other end of the hall,
where there was a dark little stairway leading up in
to a garret where old boxes and such things were kept,
as I had heard say,
and where people seldom went.

I managed
to climb up there,
then I searched my way through the dark among the piles of things,
and hid in the secretest place I could find.

It was foolish
to be afraid there,
yet still I was;
so afraid that I held in and hardly even whimpered,
though it would have been such a comfort
to whimper,
because that eases the pain,
you know.

But I could lick my leg,
and that did some good.
for half an hour there was a commotion downstairs,
and shoutings,
and rushing footsteps,
and then there was quiet again.

Quiet
for some minutes,
and that was grateful
to my spirit,

for then my fears began
to go down;
and fears are worse than pains--oh,
much worse.

Then came a sound that froze me.

They were calling me--calling me by name--hunting
for me!
It was muffled by distance,
but that could not take the terror out of it,
and it was the most dreadful sound
to me that I had ever heard.

It went all about,
everywhere,
down there:

along the halls,
through all the rooms,
in both stories,
and in the basement and the cellar;
then outside,
and farther and farther away--then back,
and all about the house again,
and I thought it would never,
never stop.

But at last it did,
hours and hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness. Then in that blessed stillness my terrors fell little by little away,
and I was at peace and slept.

It was a good rest I had,
but I woke before the twilight had come again.

I was feeling fairly comfortable,
and I could think out a plan now.

I made a very good one;
which was,

to creep down,
all the way down the back stairs,
and hide behind the cellar door,
and slip out and escape when the iceman came at dawn,
while he was inside filling the refrigerator;
then I would hide all day,
and start on my journey when night came;
my journey to--well,
anywhere where they would not know me and betray me
to the master.

I was feeling almost cheerful now;
then suddenly I thought:

Why,
what would life be without my puppy!
That was despair.

There was no plan
for me;
I saw that;
I must say where I was;
stay,
and wait,
and take what might come-- it was not my affair;
that was what life is--my mother had said it.

Then--well,
then the calling began again!

All my sorrows came back.

I said
to myself,
the master will never forgive.

I did not know what I had done
to make him so bitter and so unforgiving,
yet I judged it was something a dog could not understand,
but which was clear
to a man and dreadful. They called and called--days and nights,
it seemed
to me.

So long that the hunger and thirst near drove me mad,
and I recognized that I was getting very weak.

When you are this way you sleep a great deal,
and I did.

Once I woke in an awful fright-- it seemed
to me that the calling was right there in the garret!

And so it was:

it was Sadie's voice,
and she was crying;
my name was falling from her lips all broken,
poor thing,
and I could not believe my ears
for the joy of it when I heard her say:
"Come back
to us--oh,
come back
to us,
and forgive--it is all so sad without our--"
I broke in
with SUCH a grateful little yelp,
and the next moment Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber and shouting
for the family
to hear,
"She's found,
she's found!"
The days that followed--well,
they were wonderful.

The mother and Sadie and the servants--why,
they just seemed
to worship me.

They couldn't seem
to make me a bed that was fine enough;
and as
for food,
they couldn't be satisfied
with anything but game and delicacies that were out of season;
and every day the friends and neighbors flocked in
to hear about my heroism--that was the name they called it by,
and it means agriculture.

I remember my mother pulling it on a kennel once,
and explaining it in that way,
but didn't say what agriculture was,
except that it was synonymous
with intramural incandescence;
and a dozen times a day Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the tale
to new-comers,
and say I risked my life
to say the baby's,
and both of us had burns
to prove it,
and then the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about me,
and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother;
and when the people wanted
to know what made me limp,
they looked ashamed and changed the subject,
and sometimes when people hunted them this way and that way
with questions about it,
it looked
to me as if they were going
to cry. And this was not all the glory;
no,
the master's friends came,
a whole twenty of the most distinguished people,
and had me in the laboratory,
and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery;
and some of them said it was wonderful in a dumb beast,
the finest exhibition of instinct they could call
to mind;
but the master said,

with vehemence,
"It's far above instinct;
it's REASON,
and many a man,
privileged
to be saved and go
with you and me
to a better world by right of its possession,
has less of it that this poor silly quadruped that's foreordained
to perish";
and then he laughed,
and said:

"Why,
look at me--I'm a sarcasm!

bless you,

with all my grand intelligence,
the only think I inferred was that the dog had gone mad and was destroying the child,
whereas but
for the beast's intelligence--it's REASON,
I tell you!--the child would have perished!"
They disputed and disputed,
and _I_ was the very center of subject of it all,
and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor had come
to me;
it would have made her proud. Then they discussed optics,
as they called it,
and whether a certain injury
to the brain would produce blindness or not,
but they could not agree about it,
and said they must test it by experiment by and by;
and next they discussed plants,
and that interested me,
because in the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds--I helped her dig the holes,
you know--and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came up there,
and it was a wonder how that could happen;
but it did,
and I wished I could talk--I would have told those people about it and shown then how much I knew,
and been all alive
with the subject;
but I didn't care
for the optics;
it was dull,
and when the came back
to it again it bored me,
and I went
to sleep. Pretty soon it was spring,
and sunny and pleasant and lovely,
and the sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy good-by,
and went away on a journey and a visit
to their kin,
and the master wasn't any company
for us,
but we played together and had good times,
and the servants were kind and friendly,
so we got along quite happily and counted the days and waited
for the family. And one day those men came again,
and said,
now
for the test,
and they took the puppy
to the laboratory,
and I limped three-leggedly along,
too,
feeling proud,

for any attention shown
to the puppy was a pleasure
to me,
of course.

They discussed and experimented,
and then suddenly the puppy shrieked,
and they set him on the floor,
and he went staggering around,

with his head all bloody,
and the master clapped his hands and shouted:
"There,
I've won--confess it!

He's a blind as a bat!"
And they all said:
"It's so--you've proved your theory,
and suffering humanity owes you a great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him,
and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully,
and praised him. But I hardly saw or heard these things,

for I ran at once
to my little darling,
and snuggled close
to it where it lay,
and licked the blood,
and it put its head against mine,
whimpering softly,
and I knew in my heart it was a comfort
to it in its pain and trouble
to feel its mother's touch,
though it could not see me.

Then it dropped down,
presently,
and its little velvet nose rested upon the floor,
and it was still,
and did not move any more. Soon the master stopped discussing a moment,
and rang in the footman,
and said,
"Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went on
with the discussion,
and I trotted after the footman,
very happy and grateful,

for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now,
because it was asleep.

We went far down the garden
to the farthest end,
where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used
to play in the summer in the shade of a great elm,
and there the footman dug a hole,
and I saw he was going
to plant the puppy,
and I was glad,
because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog,
like Robin Adair,
and be a beautiful surprise
for the family when they came home;
so I tried
to help him dig,
but my lame leg was no good,
being stiff,
you know,
and you have
to have two,
or it is no use.

When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up,
he patted my head,
and there were tears in his eyes,
and he said:

"Poor little doggie,
you saved HIS child!"
I have watched two whole weeks,
and he doesn't come up!

This last week a fright has been stealing upon me.

I think there is something terrible about this.

I do not know what it is,
but the fear makes me sick,
and I cannot eat,
though the servants bring me the best of food;
and they pet me so,
and even come in the night,
and cry,
and say,
"Poor doggie--do give it up and come home;
DON't break our hearts!" and all this terrifies me the more,
and makes me sure something has happened.

And I am so weak;
since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet anymore.

And within this hour the servants,
looking toward the sun where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on,
said things I could not understand,
but they carried something cold
to my heart. "

Those poor creatures!

They do not suspect.

They will come home in the morning,
and eagerly ask
for the little doggie that did the brave deed,
and who of us will be strong enough
to say the truth
to them:

'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts that perish. '"
***
WAS IT HEAVEN?

OR HELL?


CHAPTER I
"You told a LIE?"


"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"
CHAPTER II
The family consisted of four persons:

Margaret Lester,
widow,
aged thirty six;
Helen Lester,
her daughter,
aged sixteen;
Mrs. Lester's maiden aunts,
Hannah and Hester Gray,
twins,
aged sixty-seven.

Waking and sleeping,
the three women spent their days and night in adoring the young girl;
in watching the movements of her sweet spirit in the mirror of her face;
in refreshing their souls
with the vision of her bloom and beauty;
in listening
to the music of her voice;
in gratefully recognizing how rich and fair
for them was the world
with this presence in it;
in shuddering
to think how desolate it would be
with this light gone out of it. By nature--and inside--the aged aunts were utterly dear and lovable and good,
but in the matter of morals and conduct their training had been so uncompromisingly strict that it had made them exteriorly austere,
not
to say stern.

Their influence was effective in the house;
so effective that the mother and the daughter conformed
to its moral and religious requirements cheerfully,
contentedly,
happily,
unquestionably.


to do this was become second nature
to them.

And so in this peaceful heaven there were no clashings,
no irritations,
no fault-finding,
no heart-burnings. In it a lie had no place.

In it a lie was unthinkable.

In it speech was restricted
to absolute truth,
iron-bound truth,
implacable and uncompromising truth,
let the resulting consequences be what they might.

At last,
one day,
under stress of circumstances,
the darling of the house sullied her lips
with a lie--and confessed it,

with tears and self-upbraidings.

There are not any words that can paint the consternation of the aunts.

It was as if the sky had crumpled up and collapsed and the earth had tumbled
to ruin
with a crash.

They sat side by side,
white and stern,
gazing speechless upon the culprit,
who was on her knees before them
with her face buried first in one lap and then the other,
moaning and sobbing,
and appealing
for sympathy and forgiveness and getting no response,
humbly kissing the hand of the one,
then of the other,
only
to see it withdrawn as suffering defilement by those soiled lips. Twice,
at intervals,
Aunt Hester said,
in frozen amazement:
"You told a LIE?"


Twice,
at intervals,
Aunt Hannah followed
with the muttered and amazed ejaculation:
"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"
It was all they could say.

The situation was new,
unheard of,
incredible;
they could not understand it,
they did not know how
to take hold of it,
it approximately paralyzed speech. At length it was decided that the erring child must be taken
to her mother,
who was ill,
and who ought
to know what had happened.

Helen begged,
besought,
implored that she might be spared this further disgrace,
and that her mother might be spared the grief and pain of it;
but this could not be:

duty required this sacrifice,
duty takes precedence of all things,
nothing can absolve one from a duty,

with a duty no compromise is possible. Helen still begged,
and said the sin was her own,
her mother had had no hand in it--why must she be made
to suffer
for it?
But the aunts were obdurate in their righteousness,
and said the law that visited the sins of the parent upon the child was by all right and reason reversible;
and therefore it was but just that the innocent mother of a sinning child should suffer her rightful share of the grief and pain and shame which were the allotted wages of the sin. The three moved toward the sick-room.

At this time the doctor was approaching the house.

He was still a good distance away,
however.

He was a good doctor and a good man,
and he had a good heart,
but one had
to know him a year
to get over hating him,
two years
to learn
to endure him,
three
to learn
to like him,
and four and five
to learn
to live him.

It was a slow and trying education,
but it paid.

He was of great stature;
he had a leonine head,
a leonine face,
a rough voice,
and an eye which was sometimes a pirate's and sometimes a woman's,
according
to the mood.

He knew nothing about etiquette,
and cared nothing about it;
in speech,
manner,
carriage,
and conduct he was the reverse of conventional.

He was frank,

to the limit;
he had opinions on all subjects;
they were always on tap and ready
for delivery,
and he cared not a farthing whether his listener liked them or didn't.

Whom he loved he loved,
and manifested it;
whom he didn't live he hated,
and published it from the housetops.

In his young days he had been a sailor,
and the salt-airs of all the seas blew from him yet.

He was a sturdy and loyal Christian,
and believed he was the best one in the land,
and the only one whose Christianity was perfectly sound,
healthy,
full-charged
with common sense,
and had no decayed places in it.

People who had an ax
to grind,
or people who
for any reason wanted wanted
to get on the soft side of him,
called him The Christian-- a phrase whose delicate flattery was music
to his ears,
and whose capital T was such an enchanting and vivid object
to him that he could SEE it when it fell out of a person's mouth even in the dark.

Many who were fond of him stood on their consciences
with both feet and brazenly called him by that large title habitually,
because it was a pleasure
to them
to do anything that would please him;
and
with eager and cordial malice his extensive and diligently cultivated crop of enemies gilded it,
beflowered it,
expanded it
to "The ONLY Christian. "

Of these two titles,
the latter had the wider currency;
the enemy,
being greatly in the majority,
attended
to that.

Whatever the doctor believed,
he believed
with all his heart,
and would fight
for it whenever he got the chance;
and if the intervals between chances grew
to be irksomely wide,
he would invent ways of shortening them himself.

He was severely conscientious,
according
to his rather independent lights,
and whatever he took
to be a duty he performed,
no matter whether the judgment of the professional moralists agreed
with his own or not.

At sea,
in his young days,
he had used profanity freely,
but as soon as he was converted he made a rule,
which he rigidly stuck
to ever afterward,
never
to use it except on the rarest occasions,
and then only when duty commanded.

He had been a hard drinker at sea,
but after his conversion he became a firm and outspoken teetotaler,
in order
to be an example
to the young,
and from that time forth he seldom drank;
never,
indeed,
except when it seemed
to him
to be a duty-- a condition which sometimes occurred a couple of times a year,
but never as many as five times. Necessarily,
such a man is impressionable,
impulsive,
emotional.

This one was,
and had no gift at hiding his feelings;
or if he had it he took no trouble
to exercise it.

He carried his soul's prevailing weather in his face,
and when he entered a room the parasols or the umbrellas went up--figuratively speaking-- according
to the indications.

When the soft light was in his eye it meant approval,
and delivered a benediction;
when he came
with a frown he lowered the temperature ten degrees.

He was a well-beloved man in the house of his friends,
but sometimes a dreaded one. He had a deep affection
for the Lester household and its several members returned this feeling
with interest.

They mourned over his kind of Christianity,
and he frankly scoffed at theirs;
but both parties went on loving each other just the same. He was approaching the house--out of the distance;
the aunts and the culprit were moving toward the sick-chamber.


CHAPTER III
The three last named stood by the bed;
the aunts austere,
the transgressor softly sobbing.

The mother turned her head on the pillow;
her tired eyes flamed up instantly
with sympathy and passionate mother-love when they fell upon her child,
and she opened the refuge and shelter of her arMs. "Wait!" said Aunt Hannah,
and put out her hand and stayed the girl from leaping in
to them. "

Helen," said the other aunt,
impressively,
"tell your mother all.

Purge your soul;
leave nothing unconfessed. "


Standing stricken and forlorn before her judges,
the young girl mourned her sorrowful tale through the end,
then in a passion of appeal cried out:
"Oh,
mother,
can't you forgive me?

won't you forgive me?--I am so desolate!"
"Forgive you,
my darling?

Oh,
come
to my arms!--there,
lay your head upon my breast,
and be at peace.

If you had told a thousand lies--"
There was a sound--a warning--the clearing of a throat.

The aunts glanced up,
and withered in their clothes--there stood the doctor,
his face a thunder-cloud.

Mother and child knew nothing of his presence;
they lay locked together,
heart
to heart,
steeped in immeasurable content,
dead
to all things else.

The physician stood many moments glaring and glooming upon the scene before him;
studying it,
analyzing it,
searching out its genesis;
then he put up his hand and beckoned
to the aunts.

They came trembling
to him,
and stood humbly before him and waited.

He bent down and whispered:
"Didn't I tell you this patient must be protected from all excitement?

What the hell have you been doing?

Clear out of the place?"


They obeyed.

Half an hour later he appeared in the parlor,
serene,
cheery,
clothed in sunshine,
conducting Helen,

with his arm about her waist,
petting her,
and saying gentle and playful things
to her;
and she also was her sunny and happy self again. "

Now,
then;" he said,
"good-by,
dear.

Go
to your room,
and keep away from your mother,
and behave yourself.

But wait--put out your tongue.

There,
that will do--you're as sound as a nut!" He patted her cheek and added,
"Run along now;
I want
to talk
to these aunts. "


She went from the presence.

His face clouded over again at once;
and as he sat down he said:
"You too have been doing a lot of damage--and maybe some good.

Some good,
yes--such as it is.

That woman's disease is typhoid!

You've brought it
to a show-up,
I think,

with your insanities,
and that's a service--such as it is.

I hadn't been able
to determine what it was before. "



with one impulse the old ladies sprang
to their feet,
quaking
with terror. "

Sit down!

What are you proposing
to do?"


"Do?

We must fly
to her.

We--"
"You'll do nothing of the kind;
you've done enough harm
for one day.

Do you want
to squander all your capital of crimes and follies on a single deal?

Sit down,
I tell you.

I have arranged
for her
to sleep;
she needs it;
if you disturb her without my orders,
I'll brain you-- if you've got the materials
for it. They sat down,
distressed and indignant,
but obedient,
under compulsion.

He proceeded:
"Now,
then,
I want this case explained.

THEY wanted
to explain it
to me--as if there hadn't been emotion or excitement enough already.

You knew my orders;
how did you dare
to go in there and get up that riot?"


Hester looked appealing at Hannah;
Hannah returned a beseeching look at Hester--neither wanted
to dance
to this unsympathetic orchestra.

The doctor came
to their help.

He said:
"Begin,
Hester. "


Fingering at the fringes of her shawl,
and
with lowered eyes,
Hester said,
timidly:
"We should not have disobeyed
for any ordinary cause,
but this was vital.

This was a duty.


with a duty one has no choice;
one must put all lighter considerations aside and perform it.

We were obliged
to arraign her before her mother.

She had told a lie. "


The doctor glowered upon the woman a moment,
and seemed
to be trying
to work up in his mind an understand of a wholly incomprehensible proposition;
then he stormed out:
"She told a lie!

DID she?

God bless my soul!

I tell a million a day!

And so does every doctor.

And so does everybody--including you--
for that matter.

And THAT was the important thing that authorized you
to venture
to disobey my orders and imperil that woman's life!

Look here,
Hester Gray,
this is pure lunacy;
that girl COULDN'T tell a lie that was intended
to injure a person.

The thing is impossible-- absolutely impossible.

You know it yourselves--both of you;
you know it perfectly well. "


Hannah came
to her sister's rescue:
"Hester didn't mean that it was that kind of a lie,
and it wasn't.

But it was a lie. "


"Well,
upon my word,
I never heard such nonsense!

Haven't you got sense enough
to discriminate between lies!

Don't you know the difference between a lie that helps and a lie that hurts?"


"ALL lies are sinful," said Hannah,
setting her lips together like a vise;
"all lies are forbidden. "


The Only Christian fidgeted impatiently in his chair.

He went
to attack this proposition,
but he did not quite know how or where
to begin.

Finally he made a venture:
"Hester,
wouldn't you tell a lie
to shield a person from an undeserved injury or shame?"


"No. "


"Not even a friend?"


"No. "


"Not even your dearest friend?"


"No.

I would not. "


The doctor struggled in silence awhile
with this situation;
then he asked:
"Not even
to save him from bitter pain and misery and grief?"


"No.

Not even
to save his life. "


Another pause.

Then:
"Nor his soul?"


There was a hush--a silence which endured a measurable interval-- then Hester answered,
in a low voice,
but
with decision:
"Nor his soul?"


No one spoke
for a while;
then the doctor said:
"Is it
with you the same,
Hannah?"


"Yes," she answered. "

I ask you both--why?"


"Because
to tell such a lie,
or any lie,
is a sin,
and could cost us the loss of our own souls--WOULD,
indeed,
if we died without time
to repent. "


"Strange .

.

.

strange .

.

.

it is past belief. "

Then he asked,
roughly:

"Is such a soul as that WORTH saving?"

He rose up,
mumbling and grumbling,
and started
for the door,
stumping vigorously along.

At the threshold he turned and rasped out an admonition:

"Reform!

Drop this mean and sordid and selfish devotion
to the saving of your shabby little souls,
and hunt up something
to do that's got some dignity
to it!

RISK your souls!

risk them in good causes;
then if you lose them,
why should you care?

Reform!"
The good old gentlewomen sat paralyzed,
pulverized,
outraged,
insulted,
and brooded in bitterness and indignation over these blasphemies.

They were hurt
to the heart,
poor old ladies,
and said they could never forgive these injuries. "

Reform!"
They kept repeating that word resentfully.

"Reform--and learn
to tell lies!"
Time slipped along,
and in due course a change came over their spirits.

They had completed the human being's first duty--which is
to think about himself until he has exhausted the subject,
then he is in a condition
to take up minor interests and think of other people.

This changes the complexion of his spirits--generally wholesomely.

The minds of the two old ladies reverted
to their beloved niece and the fearful disease which had smitten her;
instantly they forgot the hurts their self-love had received,
and a passionate desire rose in their hearts
to go
to the help of the sufferer and comfort her
with their love,
and minister
to her,
and labor
for her the best they could
with their weak hands,
and joyfully and affectionately wear out their poor old bodies in her dear service if only they might have the privilege. "

And we shall have it!" said Hester,

with the tears running down her face.

"There are no nurses comparable
to us,

for there are no others that will stand their watch by that bed till they drop and die,
and God knows we would do that. "


"Amen," said Hannah,
smiling approval and endorsement through the mist of moisture that blurred her glasses.

"The doctor knows us,
and knows we will not disobey again;
and he will call no others.

He will not dare!"
"Dare?"

said Hester,

with temper,
and dashing the water from her eyes;
"he will dare anything--that Christian devil!

But it will do no good
for him
to try it this time--but,
laws!

Hannah!

after all's said and done,
he is gifted and wise and good,
and he would not think of such a thing.

.

.

.

It is surely time
for one of us
to go
to that room.

What is keeping him?

Why doesn't he come and say so?"


They caught the sound of his approaching step.

He entered,
sat down,
and began
to talk. "

Margaret is a sick woman," he said.

"She is still sleeping,
but she will wake presently;
then one of you must go
to her.

She will be worse before she is better.

Pretty soon a night-and-day watch must be set.

How much of it can you two undertake?"


"All of it!" burst from both ladies at once. The doctor's eyes flashed,
and he said,

with energy:
"You DO ring true,
you brave old relics!

And you SHALL do all of the nursing you can,

for there's none
to match you in that divine office in this town;
but you can't do all of it,
and it would be a crime
to let you. "

It was grand praise,
golden praise,
coming from such a source,
and it took nearly all the resentment out of the aged twin's hearts.

"Your Tilly and my old Nancy shall do the rest--good nurses both,
white souls
with black skins,
watchful,
loving,
tender--just perfect nurses!--and competent liars from the cradle.

.

.

.

Look you!

keep a little watch on Helen;
she is sick,
and is going
to be sicker. "


The ladies looked a little surprised,
and not credulous;
and Hester said:
"How is that?

It isn't an hour since you said she was as sound as a nut. "


The doctor answered,
tranquilly:
"It was a lie. "


The ladies turned upon him indignantly,
and Hannah said:
"How can you make an odious confession like that,
in so indifferent a tone,
when you know how we feel about all forms of--"
"Hush!

You are as ignorant as cats,
both of you,
and you don't know what you are talking about.

You are like all the rest of the moral moles;
you lie from morning till night,
but because you don't do it
with your mouths,
but only
with your lying eyes,
your lying inflections,
your deceptively misplaced emphasis,
and your misleading gestures,
you turn up your complacent noses and parade before God and the world as saintly and unsmirched Truth-Speakers,
in whose cold-storage souls a lie would freeze
to death if it got there!

Why will you humbug yourselves
with that foolish notion that no lie is a lie except a spoken one?

What is the difference between lying
with your eyes and lying
with your mouth?

There is none;
and if you would reflect a moment you would see that it is so.

There isn't a human being that doesn't tell a gross of lies every day of his life;
and you--why,
between you,
you tell thirty thousand;
yet you flare up here in a lurid hypocritical horror because I tell that child a benevolent and sinless lie
to protect her from her imagination,
which would get
to work and warm up her blood
to a fever in an hour,
if I were disloyal enough
to my duty
to let it.

Which I should probably do if I were interested in saving my soul by such disreputable means. "

Come,
let us reason together.

Let us examine details.

When you two were in the sick-room raising that riot,
what would you have done if you had known I was coming?"


"Well,
what?"


"You would have slipped out and carried Helen
with you--wouldn't you?"


The ladies were silent. "

What would be your object and intention?"


"Well,
what?"


"
to keep me from finding out your guilt;

to beguile me
to infer that Margaret's excitement proceeded from some cause not known
to you.

In a word,

to tell me a lie--a silent lie.

Moreover,
a possibly harmful one. "


The twins colored,
but did not speak. "

You not only tell myriads of silent lies,
but you tell lies
with your mouths--you two. "


"THAT is not so!"
"It is so.

But only harmless ones.

You never dream of uttering a harmful one.

Do you know that that is a concession--and a confession?"


"How do you mean?"


"It is an unconscious concession that harmless lies are not criminal;
it is a confession that you constantly MAKE that discrimination.


for instance,
you declined old Mrs. Foster's invitation last week
to meet those odious Higbies at supper--in a polite note in which you expressed regret and said you were very sorry you could not go.

It was a lie.

It was as unmitigated a lie as was ever uttered.

Deny it,
Hester--
with another lie. "


Hester replied
with a toss of her head. "

That will not do.

Answer.

Was it a lie,
or wasn't it?"


The color stole in
to the cheeks of both women,
and
with a struggle and an effort they got out their confession:
"It was a lie. "


"Good--the reform is beginning;
there is hope
for you yet;
you will not tell a lie
to save your dearest friend's soul,
but you will spew out one without a scruple
to save yourself the discomfort of telling an unpleasant truth. "


He rose.

Hester,
speaking
for both,
said;
coldly:
"We have lied;
we perceive it;
it will occur no more.


to lie is a sin.

We shall never tell another one of any kind whatsoever,
even lies of courtesy or benevolence,

to save any one a pang or a sorrow decreed
for him by God. "


"Ah,
how soon you will fall!

In fact,
you have fallen already;

for what you have just uttered is a lie.

Good-by.

Reform!

One of you go
to the sick-room now. "


CHAPTER IV
Twelve days later. Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease.

Of hope
for either there was little.

The aged sisters looked white and worn,
but they would not give up their posts.

Their hearts were breaking,
poor old things,
but their grit was steadfast and indestructible.

All the twelve days the mother had pined
for the child,
and the child
for the mother,
but both knew that the prayer of these longings could not be granted.

When the mother was told-- on the first day--that her disease was typhoid,
she was frightened,
and asked if there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the day before,
when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit.

Hester told her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea.

It troubled Hester
to say it,
although it was true,

for she had not believed the doctor;
but when she saw the mother's joy in the news,
the pain in her conscience lost something of its force--a result which made her ashamed of the constructive deception which she had practiced,
though not ashamed enough
to make her distinctly and definitely wish she had refrained from it.

From that moment the sick woman understood that her daughter must remain away,
and she said she would reconcile herself
to the separation the best she could,

for she would rather suffer death than have her child's health imperiled.

That afternoon Helen had
to take
to her bed,
ill.

She grew worse during the night.

In the morning her mother asked after her:
"Is she well?"


Hester turned cold;
she opened her lips,
but the words refused
to come.

The mother lay languidly looking,
musing,
waiting;
suddenly she turned white and gasped out:
"Oh,
my God!

what is it?

is she sick?"


Then the poor aunt's tortured heart rose in rebellion,
and words came:
"No--be comforted;
she is well. "


The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:
"Thank God
for those dear words!

Kiss me.

How I worship you
for saying them!"
Hester told this incident
to Hannah,
who received it
with a rebuking look,
and said,
coldly:
"Sister,
it was a lie. "


Hester's lips trembled piteously;
she choked down a sob,
and said:
"Oh,
Hannah,
it was a sin,
but I could not help it.

I could not endure the fright and the misery that were in her face. "


"No matter.

It was a lie.

God will hold you
to account
for it. "


"Oh,
I know it,
I know it," cried Hester,
wringing her hands,
"but even if it were now,
I could not help it.

I know I should do it again. "


"Then take my place
with Helen in the morning.

I will make the report myself. "


Hester clung
to her sister,
begging and imploring. "

Don't,
Hannah,
oh,
don't--you will kill her. "


"I will at least speak the truth. "


In the morning she had a cruel report
to bear
to the mother,
and she braced herself
for the trial.

When she returned from her mission,
Hester was waiting,
pale and trembling,
in the hall.

She whispered:
"Oh,
how did she take it--that poor,
desolate mother?"


Hannah's eyes were swimming in tears.

She said:
"God forgive me,
I told her the child was well!"
Hester gathered her
to her heart,

with a grateful "God bless you,
Hannah!" and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises. After that,
the two knew the limit of their strength,
and accepted their fate.

They surrendered humbly,
and abandoned themselves
to the hard requirements of the situation.

Daily they told the morning lie,
and confessed their sin in prayer;
not asking forgiveness,
as not being worthy of it,
but only wishing
to make record that they realized their wickedness and were not desiring
to hide it or excuse it. Daily,
as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower,
the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young beauty
to the wan mother,
and winced under the stabs her ecstasies of joy and gratitude gave them. In the first days,
while the child had strength
to hold a pencil,
she wrote fond little love-notes
to her mother,
in which she concealed her illness;
and these the mother read and reread through happy eyes wet
with thankful tears,
and kissed them over and over again,
and treasured them as precious things under her pillow. Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand,
and the mind wandered,
and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences.

this was a sore dilemma
for the poor aunts.

There were no love-notes
for the mother.

They did not know what
to do.

Hester began a carefully studied and plausible explanation,
but lost the track of it and grew confused;
suspicion began
to show in the mother's face,
then alarm.

Hester saw it,
recognized the imminence of the danger,
and descended
to the emergency,
pulling herself resolutely together and plucking victor from the open jaws of defeat.

In a placid and convincing voice she said:
"I thought it might distress you
to know it,
but Helen spent the night at the Sloanes'.

There was a little party there,
and,
although she did not want
to go,
and you so sick,
we persuaded her,
she being young and needing the innocent pastimes of youth,
and we believing you would approve.

Be sure she will write the moment she comes. "


"How good you are,
and how dear and thoughtful
for us both!

Approve?

Why,
I thank you
with all my heart.

My poor little exile!

Tell her I want her
to have every pleasure she can--I would not rob her of one.

Only let her keep her health,
that is all I ask.

Don't let that suffer;
I could not bear it.

How thankful I am that she escaped this infection--and what a narrow risk she ran,
Aunt Hester!

Think of that lovely face all dulled and burned
with fever.

I can't bear the thought of it.

Keep her health.

Keep her bloom!

I can see her now,
the dainty creature--
with the big,
blue,
earnest eyes;
and sweet,
oh,
so sweet and gentle and winning!

Is she as beautiful as ever,
dear Aunt Hester?"


"Oh,
more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before,
if such a thing can be"--and Hester turned away and fumbled
with the medicine-bottles,

to hide her shame and grief.


CHAPTER V
After a little,
both aunts were laboring upon a difficult and baffling work in Helen's chamber.

Patiently and earnestly,

with their stiff old fingers,
they were trying
to forge the required note.

They made failure after failure,
but they improved little by little all the time.

The pity of it all,
the pathetic humor of it,
there was none
to see;
they themselves were unconscious of it.

Often their tears fell upon the notes and spoiled them;
sometimes a single misformed word made a note risky which could have been ventured but
for that;
but at last Hannah produced one whose script was a good enough imitation of Helen's
to pass any but a suspicious eye,
and bountifully enriched it
with the petting phrases and loving nicknames that had been familiar on the child's lips from her nursery days.

She carried it
to the mother,
who took it
with avidity,
and kissed it,
and fondled it,
reading its precious words over and over again,
and dwelling
with deep contentment upon its closing paragraph:
"Mousie darling,
if I could only see you,
and kiss your eyes,
and feel your arms about me!

I am so glad my practicing does not disturb you.

Get well soon.

Everybody is good
to me,
but I am so lonesome without you,
dear mamma. "


"The poor child,
I know just how she feels.

She cannot be quite happy without me;
and I--oh,
I live in the light of her eyes!

Tell her she must practice all she pleases;
and,
Aunt Hannah-- tell her I can't hear the piano this far,
nor hear dear voice when she sings:

God knows I wish I could.

No one knows how sweet that voice is
to me;
and
to think--some day it will be silent!

What are you crying for?
"Only because--because--it was just a memory.

When I came away she was singing,
'Loch Lomond. ' The pathos of it!

It always moves me so when she sings that. "


"And me,
too.

How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful sorrow is brooding in her breast and she sings it
for the mystic healing it brings.

.

.

.

Aunt Hannah?"


"Dear Margaret?"


"I am very ill.

Sometimes it comes over me that I shall never hear that dear voice again. "


"Oh,
don't--don't,
Margaret!

I can't bear it!"
Margaret was moved and distressed,
and said,
gently:
"There--there--let me put my arms around you.

Don't cry.

There--put your cheek
to mine.

Be comforted.

I wish
to live.

I will live if I can.

Ah,
what could she do without me!

.

.

.

Does she often speak of me?--but I know she does. "


"Oh,
all the time--all the time!"
"My sweet child!

She wrote the note the moment she came home?"


"Yes--the first moment.

She would not wait
to take off her things. "


"I knew it.

It is her dear,
impulsive,
affectionate way.

I knew it without asking,
but I wanted
to hear you say it.

The petted wife knows she is loved,
but she makes her husband tell her so every day,
just
for the joy of hearing it.

.

.

.

She used the pen this time.

That is better;
the pencil-marks could rub out,
and I should grieve
for that.

Did you suggest that she use the pen?"


"Y--no--she--it was her own idea. The mother looked her pleasure,
and said:
"I was hoping you would say that.

There was never such a dear and thoughtful child!

.

.

.

Aunt Hannah?"


"Dear Margaret?"


"Go and tell her I think of her all the time,
and worship her.

Why--you are crying again.

Don't be so worried about me,
dear;
I think there is nothing
to fear,
yet. "


The grieving messenger carried her message,
and piously delivered it
to unheeding ears.

The girl babbled on unaware;
looking up at her
with wondering and startled eyes flaming
with fever,
eyes in which was no light of recognition:
"Are you--no,
you are not my mother.

I want her--oh,
I want her!

She was here a minute ago--I did not see her go.

Will she come?

will she come quickly?

will she come now?

.

.

.

There are so many houses .

.

.

and they oppress me so .

.

.

and everything whirls and turns and whirls .

.

.

oh,
my head,
my head!"--and so she wandered on and on,
in her pain,
flitting from one torturing fancy
to another,
and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution of unrest. Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the hot brow,
murmuring endearing and pitying words,
and thanking the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.


CHAPTER VI
Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave,
and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her radiant health and loveliness
to the happy mother,
whose pilgrimage was also now nearing its end.

And daily they forged loving and cheery notes in the child's hand,
and stood by
with remorseful consciences and bleeding hearts,
and wept
to see the grateful mother devour them and adore them and treasure them away as things beyond price,
because of their sweet source,
and sacred because her child's hand had touched them. At last came that kindly friend who brings healing and peace
to all.

The lights were burning low.

In the solemn hush which precedes the dawn vague figures flitted soundless along the dim hall and gathered silent and awed in Helen's chamber,
and grouped themselves about her bed,

for a warning had gone forth,
and they knew.

The dying girl lay
with closed lids,
and unconscious,
the drapery upon her breast faintly rising and falling as her wasting life ebbed away.

At intervals a sigh or a muffled sob broke upon the stillness.

The same haunting thought was in all minds there:

the pity of this death,
the going out in
to the great darkness,
and the mother not here
to help and hearten and bless. Helen stirred;
her hands began
to grope wistfully about as if they sought something--she had been blind some hours.

The end was come;
all knew it.


with a great sob Hester gathered her
to her breast,
crying,
"Oh,
my child,
my darling!" A rapturous light broke in the dying girl's face,

for it was mercifully vouchsafed her
to mistake those sheltering arms
for another's;
and she went
to her rest murmuring,
"Oh,
mamma,
I am so happy--I longed
for you--now I can die. "


Two hours later Hester made her report.

The mother asked:
"How is it
with the child?"


"She is well. "


CHAPTER VII
A sheaf of white crape and black was hung upon the door of the house,
and there it swayed and rustled in the wind and whispered its tidings.

At noon the preparation of the dead was finished,
and in the coffin lay the fair young form,
beautiful,
and in the sweet face a great peace.

Two mourners sat by it,
grieving and worshipping-- Hannah and the black woman Tilly.

Hester came,
and she was trembling,

for a great trouble was upon her spirit.

She said:
"She asks
for a note. "


Hannah's face blanched.

She had not thought of this;
it had seemed that that pathetic service was ended.

But she realized now that that could not be.


for a little while the two women stood looking in
to each other's face,

with vacant eyes;
then Hannah said:
"There is no way out of it--she must have it;
she will suspect,
else. "


"And she would find out. "


"Yes.

It would break her heart. "

She looked at the dead face,
and her eyes filled.

"I will write it," she said. Hester carried it.

The closing line said:
"Darling Mousie,
dear sweet mother,
we shall soon be together again.

Is not that good news?

And it is true;
they all say it is true. "


The mother mourned,
saying:
"Poor child,
how will she bear it when she knows?

I shall never see her again in life.

It is hard,
so hard.

She does not suspect?

You guard her from that?"


"She thinks you will soon be well. "


"How good you are,
and careful,
dear Aunt Hester!

None goes near herr who could carry the infection?"


"It would be a crime. "


"But you SEE her?"


"
with a distance between--yes. "


"That is so good.

Others one could not trust;
but you two guardian angels--steel is not so true as you.

Others would be unfaithful;
and many would deceive,
and lie. "


Hester's eyes fell,
and her poor old lips trembled. "

Let me kiss you
for her,
Aunt Hester;
and when I am gone,
and the danger is past,
place the kiss upon her dear lips some day,
and say her mother sent it,
and all her mother's broken heart is in it. "


Within the hour,
Hester,
raining tears upon the dead face,
performed her pathetic mission.


CHAPTER VIII
Another day dawned,
and grew,
and spread its sunshine in the earth.

Aunt Hannah brought comforting news
to the failing mother,
and a happy note,
which said again,
"We have but a little time
to wait,
darling mother,
then se shall be together. "


The deep note of a bell came moaning down the wind. "

Aunt Hannah,
it is tolling.

Some poor soul is at rest.

As I shall be soon.

You will not let her forget me?"


"Oh,
God knows she never will!"
"Do not you hear strange noises,
Aunt Hannah?

It sounds like the shuffling of many feet. "


"We hoped you would not hear it,
dear.

It is a little company gathering,
for--
for Helen's sake,
poor little prisoner.

There will be music--and she loves it so.

We thought you would not mind. "


"Mind?

Oh no,
no--oh,
give her everything her dear heart can desire.

How good you two are
to her,
and how good
to me!

God bless you both always!"
After a listening pause:
"How lovely!

It is her organ.

Is she playing it herself,
do you think?"

Faint and rich and inspiring the chords floating
to her ears on the still air.

"Yes,
it is her touch,
dear heart,
I recognize it.

They are singing.

Why--it is a hymn!

and the sacredest of all,
the most touching,
the most consoling.

.

.

.

It seems
to open the gates of paradise
to me.

.

.

.

If I could die now.

.

.

. "


Faint and far the words rose out of the stillness:
Nearer,
my God,

to Thee,
Nearer
to Thee,
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me.


with the closing of the hymn another soul passed
to its rest,
and they that had been one in life were not sundered in death.

The sisters,
mourning and rejoicing,
said:
"How blessed it was that she never knew!"
CHAPTER IX
At midnight they sat together,
grieving,
and the angel of the Lord appeared in the midst transfigured
with a radiance not of earth;
and speaking,
said:
"
for liars a place is appointed.

There they burn in the fires of hell from everlasting un
to everlasting.

Repent!"
The bereaved fell upon their knees before him and clasped their hands and bowed their gray heads,
adoring.

But their tongues clove
to the roof of their mouths,
and they were dumb. "

Speak!

that I may bear the message
to the chancery of heaven and bring again the decree from which there is no appeal. "


Then they bowed their heads yet lower,
and one said:
"Our sin is great,
and we suffer shame;
but only perfect and final repentance can make us whole;
and we are poor creatures who have learned our human weakness,
and we know that if we were in those hard straits again our hearts would fail again,
and we should sin as before.

The strong could prevail,
and so be saved,
but we are lost. "


They lifted their heads in supplication.

The angel was gone.

While they marveled and wept he came again;
and bending low,
he whispered the decree.


CHAPTER X
Was it Heaven?

Or Hell?
***
A CURE
FOR THE BLUES
By courtesy of Mr. Cable I came in
to possession of a singular book eight or ten years ago.

It is likely that mine is now the only copy in existence.

Its title-page,
unabbreviated,
reads as follows:
"The Enemy Conquered;
or,
Love Triumphant.

By G.

Ragsdale McClintock,
[1] author of 'An Address,' etc. ,
delivered at Sunflower Hill,
South Carolina,
and member of the Yale Law School.

New Haven:

published by T.

H.

Pease,
83 Chapel Street,
1845. "


No one can take up this book and lay it down again unread.

Whoever reads one line of it is caught,
is chained;
he has become the contented slave of its fascinations;
and he will read and read,
devour and devour,
and will not let it go out of his hand till it is finished
to the last line,
though the house be on fire over his head.

And after a first reading he will not throw it aside,
but will keep it by him,

with his Shakespeare and his Homer,
and will take it up many and many a time,
when the world is dark and his spirits are low,
and be straightway cheered and refreshed.

Yet this work has been allowed
to lie wholly neglected,
unmentioned,
and apparently unregretted,

for nearly half a century. The reader must not imagine that he is
to find in it wisdom,
brilliancy,
fertility of invention,
ingenuity of construction,
excellence of form,
purity of style,
perfection of imagery,
truth
to nature,
clearness of statement,
humanly possible situations,
humanly possible people,
fluent narrative,
connected sequence of events-- or philosophy,
or logic,
or sense.

No;
the rich,
deep,
beguiling charm of the book lies in the total and miraculous ABSENCE from it of all these qualities--a charm which is completed and perfected by the evident fact that the author,
whose naive innocence easily and surely wins our regard,
and almost our worship,
does not know that they are absent,
does not even suspect that they are absent.

When read by the light of these helps
to an understanding of the situation,
the book is delicious--profoundly and satisfyingly delicious. I call it a book because the author calls it a book,
I call it a work because he calls it a work;
but,
in truth,
it is merely a duodecimo pamphlet of thirty-one pages.

It was written
for fame and money,
as the author very frankly--yes,
and very hopefully,
too,
poor fellow-- says in his preface.

The money never came--no penny of it ever came;
and how long,
how pathetically long,
the fame has been deferred-- forty-seven years!

He was young then,
it would have been so much
to him then;
but will he care
for it now?
As time is measured in America,
McClintock's epoch is antiquity.

In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion
for "eloquence";
it was his pet,
his darling.

He would be eloquent,
or perish.

And he recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid,
the tempestuous,
the volcanic.

He liked words--big words,
fine words,
grand words,
rumbling,
thundering,
reverberating words;

with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound,
but not otherwise.

He loved
to stand up before a dazed world,
and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone in
to the skies,
and work his subterranean thunders,
and shake himself
with earthquakes,
and stench himself
with sulphur fumes.

If he consumed his own fields and vineyards,
that was a pity,
yes;
but he would have his eruption at any cost.

Mr. McClintock's eloquence-- and he is always eloquent,
his crater is always spouting--is of the pattern common
to his day,
but he departs from the custom of the time in one respect:

his brethren allowed sense
to intrude when it did not mar the sound,
but he does not allow it
to intrude at all.


for example,
consider this figure,
which he used in the village "Address" referred
to
with such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted--"like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower. "

Please read it again;
contemplate it;
measure it;
walk around it;
climb up it;
try
to get at an approximate realization of the size of it.

Is the fellow
to that
to be found in literature,
ancient or modern,
foreign or domestic,
living or dead,
drunk or sober?

One notices how fine and grand it sounds.

We know that if it was loftily uttered,
it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers;
yet there isn't a ray of sense in it,
or meaning
to it. McClintock finished his education at Yale in 1843,
and came
to Hartford on a visit that same year.

I have talked
with men who at that time talked
with him,
and felt of him,
and knew he was real.

One needs
to remember that fact and
to keep fast hold of it;
it is the only way
to keep McClintock's book from undermining one's faith in McClintock's actuality. As
to the book.

The first four pages are devoted
to an inflamed eulogy of Woman--simply woman in general,
or perhaps as an institution-- wherein,
among other compliments
to her details,
he pays a unique one
to her voice.

He says it "fills the breast
with fond alarms,
echoed by every rill. "

It sounds well enough,
but it is not true.

After the eulogy he takes up his real work and the novel begins.

It begins in the woods,
near the village of Sunflower Hill.

Brightening clouds seemed
to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee,

to spread their beauty over the thick forest,

to guide the hero whose bosom beats
with aspirations
to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name,
and
to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.

It seems a general remark,
but it is not general;
the hero mentioned is the to-be hero of the book;
and in this abrupt fashion,
and without name or description,
he is shoveled in
to the tale.

"
with aspirations
to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name" is merely a phrase flung in
for the sake of the sound--let it not mislead the reader.

No one is trying
to tarnish this person;
no one has thought of it.

The rest of the sentence is also merely a phrase;
the man has no friend as yet,
and of course has had no chance
to try him,
or win back his admiration,
or disturb him in any other way. The hero climbs up over "Sawney's Mountain," and down the other side,
making
for an old Indian "castle"--which becomes "the red man's hut" in the next sentence;
and when he gets there at last,
he "surveys
with wonder and astonishment" the invisible structure,
"which time has buried in the dust,
and thought
to himself his happiness was not yet complete. "

One doesn't know why it wasn't,
nor how near it came
to being complete,
nor what was still wanting
to round it up and make it so.

Maybe it was the Indian;
but the book does not say.

At this point we have an episode:
Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man,
about eighteen or twenty,
who seemed
to be reading some favorite book,
and who had a remarkably noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.

This of course made the youth a welcome guest,
and gained him friends in whatever condition of his life he might be placed.

The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure which showed strength and grace in every movement.

He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly manner,
and inquired of him the way
to the village.

After he had received the desired information,
and was about taking his leave,
the youth said,
"Are you not Major Elfonzo,
the great musician [2]--the champion of a noble cause-- the modern Achilles,
who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"

"I bear that name," said the Major,
"and those titles,
trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings,
and if," continued the Major,
"you,
sir,
are the patronizer of noble deeds,
I should like
to make you my confidant and learn your address. "

The youth looked somewhat amazed,
bowed low,
mused
for a moment,
and began:

"My name is Roswell.

I have been recently admitted
to the bar,
and can only give a faint outline of my future success in that honorable profession;
but I trust,
sir,
like the Eagle,
I shall look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,
and shall ever be ready
to give you any assistance in my official capacity,
and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do,
whenever it shall be called from its buried GREATNESS. "

The Major grasped him by the hand,
and exclaimed:

"O!

thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame of burning prosperity,
may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare of thy soul,
and battle down every rampart that seems
to impede your progress!"
There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock;
he imitates other people's styles,
but nobody can imitate his,
not even an idiot.

Other people can be windy,
but McClintock blows a gale;
other people can blubber sentiment,
but McClintock spews it;
other people can mishandle metaphors,
but only McClintock knows how
to make a business of it.

McClintock is always McClintock,
he is always consistent,
his style is always his own style.

He does not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant on another;
he is irrelevant on all of them.

He does not make the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another;
he is obscure all the time.

He does not make the mistake of slipping in a name here and there that is out of character
with his work;
he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics.

In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship.

It is this that makes his style unique,
and entitles it
to a name of its own--McClintockian.

It is this that protects it from being mistaken
for anybody else's.

Uncredited quotations from other writers often leave a reader in doubt as
to their authorship,
but McClintock is safe from that accident;
an uncredited quotation from him would always be recognizable.

When a boy nineteen years old,
who had just been admitted
to the bar,
says,
"I trust,
sir,
like the Eagle,
I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man," we know who is speaking through that boy;
we should recognize that note anywhere.

There be myriads of instruments in this world's literary orchestra,
and a multitudinous confusion of sounds that they make,
wherein fiddles are drowned,
and guitars smothered,
and one sort of drum mistaken
for another sort;
but whensoever the brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog of music,
that note is recognizable,
and about it there can be no blur of doubt. The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home
to see his father.

When McClintock wrote this interview he probably believed it was pathetic.

The road which led
to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo had bid farewell
to the youth of deep feeling,
and was now wending his way
to the dreaming spot of his fondness.

The south winds whistled through the woods,
as the waters dashed against the banks,
as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.

This brought him
to remember while alone,
that he quietly left behind the hospitality of a father's house,
and gladly entered the world,

with higher hopes than are often realized.

But as he journeyed onward,
he was mindful of the advice of his father,
who had often looked sadly on the ground,
when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes.

Elfonzo had been somewhat a dutiful son;
yet fond of the amusements of life-- had been in distant lands--had enjoyed the pleasure of the world,
and had frequently returned
to the scenes of his boyhood,
almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.

In this condition,
he would frequently say
to his father,
"Have I offended you,
that you look upon me as a stranger,
and frown upon me
with stinging looks?

Will you not favor me
with the sound of your voice?

If I have trampled upon your veneration,
or have spread a humid veil of darkness around your expectations,
send me back in
to the world,
where no heart beats
for me--where the foot of man had never yet trod;
but give me at least one kind word--allow me
to come in
to the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks. "

"Forbid it,
Heaven,
that I should be angry
with thee," answered the father,
"my son,
and yet I send thee back
to the children of the world--
to the cold charity of the combat,
and
to a land of victory.

I read another destiny in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has already kindled in my soul a strange sensation.

It will seek thee,
my dear ELFONZO,
it will find thee--thou canst not escape that lighted torch,
which shall blot out from the remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee.

I once thought not so.

Once,
I was blind;
but now the path of life is plain before me,
and my sight is clear;
yet,
Elfonzo,
return
to thy worldly occupation--take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds-- struggle
with the civilized world and
with your own heart;
fly swiftly
to the enchanted ground--let the night-OWL send forth its screams from the stubborn oak--let the sea sport upon the beach,
and the stars sing together;
but learn of these,
Elfonzo,
thy doom,
and thy hiding-place.

Our most innocent as well as our most lawful DESIRES must often be denied us,
that we may learn
to sacrifice them
to a Higher will. "


Remembering such admonitions
with gratitude,
Elfonzo was immediately urged by the recollection of his father's family
to keep moving.

McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises;
but as a rule they are not pleasant ones,
they jar upon the feelings.

His closing sentence in the last quotation is of that sort.

It brings one down out of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed a fashion.

It incenses one against the author
for a moment.

It makes the reader want
to take him by this winter-worn locks,
and trample on his veneration,
and deliver him over
to the cold charity of combat,
and blot him out
with his own lighted torch.

But the feeling does not last.

The master takes again in his hand that concord of sweet sounds of his,
and one is reconciled,
pacified.

His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,
dark as the forest was,
and
with joy he very soon reached the little village of repose,
in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.

His close attention
to every important object--his modest questions about whatever was new
to him--his reverence
for wise old age,
and his ardent desire
to learn many of the fine arts,
soon brought him in
to respectable notice. One mild winter day,
as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,
which stood upon a small eminence,
surrounded by native growth-- some venerable in its appearance,
others young and prosperous-- all seemed inviting,
and seemed
to be the very place
for learning as well as
for genius
to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.

He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.

The artfulness of this man!

None knows so well as he how
to pique the curiosity of the reader--and how
to disappoint it.

He raises the hope,
here,
that he is going
to tell all about how one enters a classic wall in the usual mode of Southern manners;
but does he?

No;
he smiles in his sleeve,
and turns aside
to other matters.

The principal of the Institution begged him
to be seated and listen
to the recitations that were going on.

He accordingly obeyed the request,
and seemed
to be much pleased.

After the school was dismissed,
and the young hearts regained their freedom,

with the songs of the evening,
laughing at the anticipated pleasures of a happy home,
while others tittered at the actions of the past day,
he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution--
with an undaunted mind.

He said he had determined
to become a student,
if he could meet
with his approbation.

"Sir," said he,
"I have spent much time in the world.

I have traveled among the uncivilized inhabitants of America.

I have met
with friends,
and combated
with foes;
but none of these gratify my ambition,
or decide what is
to be my destiny.

I see the learned world have an influence
with the voice of the people themselves.

The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their differences
to this class of persons.

This the illiterate and inexperienced little dream of;
and now if you will receive me as I am,

with these deficiencies--
with all my misguided opinions,
I will give you my honor,
sir,
that I will never disgrace the Institution,
or those who have placed you in this honorable station. "

The instructor,
who had met
with many disappointments,
knew how
to feel
for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities of an unfeeling community.

He looked at him earnestly,
and said:

"Be of good cheer--look forward,
sir,

to the high destination you may attain.

Remember,
the more elevated the mark at which you aim,
the more sure,
the more glorious,
the more magnificent the prize. "

From wonder
to wonder,
his encouragement led the impatient listener.

A strange nature bloomed before him--giant streams promised him success--gardens of hidden treasures opened
to his view.

All this,
so vividly described,
seemed
to gain a new witchery from his glowing fancy.

It seems
to me that this situation is new in romance.

I feel sure it has not been attempted before.

Military celebrities have been disguised and set at lowly occupations
for dramatic effect,
but I think McClintock is the first
to send one of them
to school.

Thus,
in this book,
you pass from wonder
to wonder,
through gardens of hidden treasure,
where giant streams bloom before you,
and behind you,
and all around,
and you feel as happy,
and groggy,
and satisfied
with your quart of mixed metaphor aboard as you would if it had been mixed in a sample-room and delivered from a jug. Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprise--a sweetheart who is sprung upon us without any preparation,
along
with a name
for her which is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.

In 1842 he entered the class,
and made rapid progress in the English and Latin departments.

Indeed,
he continued advancing
with such rapidity that he was like
to become the first in his class,
and made such unexpected progress,
and was so studious,
that he had almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections.

The fresh wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously
to drop once more the dews of Heaven upon the heads of those who had so often poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs.

He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there.

So one evening ,as he was returning from his reading,
he concluded he would pay a visit
to this enchanting spot.

Little did he think of witnessing a shadow of his former happiness,
though no doubt he wished it might be so.

He continued sauntering by the roadside,
meditating on the past.

The nearer he approached the spot,
the more anxious he became.

At that moment a tall female figure flitted across his path,

with a bunch of roses in her hand;
her countenance showed uncommon vivacity,

with a resolute spirit;
her ivory teeth already appeared as she smiled beautifully,
promenading--while her ringlets of hair dangled unconsciously around her snowy neck.

Nothing was wanting
to complete her beauty.

The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek;
the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates.

In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that never faded-- one that never was conquered.

Ambulinia!

It can hardly be matched in fiction.

The full name is Ambulinia Valeer.

Marriage will presently round it out and perfect it.

Then it will be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo.

It takes the chromo.

Her heart yielded
to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo,
on whom she gazed
with intense delight,
and
to whom she felt herself more closely bound,
because he sought the hand of no other.

Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie.

His books no longer were his inseparable companions--his thoughts arrayed themselves
to encourage him
to the field of victory.

He endeavored
to speak
to his supposed Ambulinia,
but his speech appeared not in words.

No,
his effort was a stream of fire,
that kindled his soul in
to a flame of admiration,
and carried his senses away captive.

Ambulinia had disappeared,

to make him more mindful of his duty.

As she walked speedily away through the piny woods,
she calmly echoed:

"O!

Elfonzo,
thou wilt now look from thy sunbeaMs. Thou shalt now walk in a new path--perhaps thy way leads through darkness;
but fear not,
the stars foretell happiness. "



to McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something,
no doubt,
or seemed
to mean something;
but it is useless
for us
to try
to divine what it was.

Ambulinia comes--we don't know whence nor why;
she mysteriously intimates--we don't know what;
and then she goes echoing away--we don't know whither;
and down comes the curtain.

McClintock's art is subtle;
McClintock's art is deep.

Not many days afterward,
as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat one evening at twilight,

to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes of melody along the distant groves,
the little birds perched on every side,
as if
to watch the movements of their new visitor.

The bells were tolling,
when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers,
holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music-- his eye continually searching
for Ambulinia,
who hardly seemed
to perceive him,
as she played carelessly
with the songsters that hopped from branch
to branch.

Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two.

Nature seemed
to have given the more tender soul
to Elfonzo,
and the stronger and more courageous
to Ambulinia.

A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo-- such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed as admirers,
and by those who are able
to return the same
with sincerity of heart.

He was a few years older than Ambulinia:

she had turned a little in
to her seventeenth.

He had almost grown up in the Cherokee country,

with the same equal proportions as one of the natives.

But little intimacy had existed between them until the year forty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely girl was too exalted
to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet reverence.

But as lovers will not always be insulted,
at all times and under all circumstances,
by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old age,
which should continually reflect dignity upon those around,
and treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate
with a graceful mien,
he continued
to use diligence and perseverance.

All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character,
and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm
to check its rage in the forest,
he resolves
for the first time
to shake off his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.

At last we begin
to get the Major's measure.

We are able
to put this and that casual fact together,
and build the man up before our eyes,
and look at him.

And after we have got him built,
we find him worth the trouble.

By the above comparison between his age and Ambulinia's,
we guess the war-worn veteran
to be twenty-two;
and the other facts stand thus:

he had grown up in the Cherokee country
with the same equal proportions as one of the natives-- how flowing and graceful the language,
and yet how tantalizing as
to meaning!--he had been turned adrift by his father,

to whom he had been "somewhat of a dutiful son";
he wandered in distant lands;
came back frequently "
to the scenes of his boyhood,
almost destitute of many of the comforts of life," in order
to get in
to the presence of his father's winter-worn locks,
and spread a humid veil of darkness around his expectations;
but he was always promptly sent back
to the cold charity of the combat again;
he learned
to play the fiddle,
and made a name
for himself in that line;
he had dwelt among the wild tribes;
he had philosophized about the despoilers of the kingdoms of the earth,
and found out--the cunning creature-- that they refer their differences
to the learned
for settlement;
he had achieved a vast fame as a military chieftain,
the Achilles of the Florida campaigns,
and then had got him a spelling-book and started
to school;
he had fallen in love
with Ambulinia Valeer while she was teething,
but had kept it
to himself awhile,
out of the reverential awe which he felt
for the child;
but now at last,
like the unyielding Deity who follows the storm
to check its rage in the forest,
he resolves
to shake off his embarrassment,
and
to return where before he had only worshiped.

The Major,
indeed,
has made up his mind
to rise up and shake his faculties together,
and
to see if HE can't do that thing himself.

This is not clear.

But no matter about that:

there stands the hero,
compact and visible;
and he is no mean structure,
considering that his creator had never structure,
considering that his creator had never created anything before,
and hadn't anything but rags and wind
to build
with this time.

It seems
to me that no one can contemplate this odd creature,
this quaint and curious blatherskite,
without admiring McClintock,
or,
at any rate,
loving him and feeling grateful
to him;

for McClintock made him,
he gave him
to us;
without McClintock we could not have had him,
and would now be poor. But we must come
to the feast again.

Here is a courtship scene,
down there in the romantic glades among the raccoons,
alligators,
and things,
that has merit,
peculiar literary merit.

See how Achilles woos.

Dwell upon the second sentence (particularly the close of it) and the beginning of the third.

Never mind the new personage,
Leos,
who is intruded upon us unheralded and unexplained.

That is McClintock's way;
it is his habit;
it is a part of his genius;
he cannot help it;
he never interrupts the rush of his narrative
to make introductions.

It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought an interview
with her,
which she as anxiously avoided,
and assumed a more distant calmness than before,
seemingly
to destroy all hope.

After many efforts and struggles
with his own person,

with timid steps the Major approached the damsel,

with the same caution as he would have done in a field of battle.

"Lady Ambulinia," said he,
trembling,
"I have long desired a moment like this.

I dare not let it escape.

I fear the consequences;
yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition.

Can you not anticipate what I would say,
and what I am about
to express?

Will not you,
like Minerva,
who sprung from the brain of Jupiter,
release me from thy winding chains or cure me--" "Say no more,
Elfonzo," answered Ambulinia,

with a serious look,
raising her hand as if she intended
to swear eternal hatred against the whole world;
"another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter coldness.

I know not the little arts of my sex.

I care but little
for the vanity of those who would chide me,
and am unwilling as well as ashamed
to be guilty of anything that would lead you
to think 'all is not gold that glitters';
so be no rash in your resolution.

It is better
to repent now,
than
to do it in a more solemn hour.

Yes,
I know what you would say.

I know you have a costly gift
for me--the noblest that man can make-- YOUR HEART!

You should not offer it
to one so unworthy.

Heaven,
you know,
has allowed my father's house
to be made a house of solitude,
a home of silent obedience,
which my parents say is more
to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles.

Notwithstanding all this,
let me speak the emotions of an honest heart-- allow me
to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate better days.

The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun,
which it can never reach;
and flowers of the field appear
to ascend in the same direction,
because they cannot do otherwise;
but man confides his complaints
to the saints in whom he believes;

for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow.

From your confession and indicative looks,
I must be that person;
if so deceive not yourself. "


Elfonzo replied,
"Pardon me,
my dear madam,

for my frankness.

I have loved you from my earliest days--everything grand and beautiful hath borne the image of Ambulinia;
while precipices on every hand surrounded me,
your GUARDIAN ANGEL stood and beckoned me away from the deep abyss.

In every trial,
in every misfortune,
I have met
with your helping hand;
yet I never dreamed or dared
to cherish thy love,
till a voice impaired
with age encouraged the cause,
and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory.

I saw how Leos worshiped thee.

I felt my own unworthiness.

I began
to KNOW JEALOUSLY,
a strong guest--indeed,
in my bosom,-- yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was
to be my rival.

I was aware that he had the influence of your parents,
and the wealth of a deceased relative,
which is too often mistaken
for permanent and regular tranquillity;
yet I have determined by your permission
to beg an interest in your prayers--
to ask you
to animate my drooping spirits by your smiles and your winning looks;

for if you but speak I shall be conqueror,
my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes.

And though earth and sea may tremble,
and the charioteer of the sun may forget his dashing steed,
yet I am assured that it is only
to arm me
with divine weapons which will enable me
to complete my long-tried intention. "


"Return
to yourself,
Elfonzo," said Ambulinia,
pleasantly:

"a dream of vision has disturbed your intellect;
you are above the atmosphere,
dwelling in the celestial regions;
nothing is there that urges or hinders,
nothing that brings discord in
to our present litigation.

I entreat you
to condescend a little,
and be a man,
and forget it all.

When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting
with giants and dragons,
they represent under this image our struggles
with the delusions of our passions.

You have exalted me,
an unhappy girl,

to the skies;
you have called me a saint,
and portrayed in your imagination an angel in human form.

Let her remain such
to you,
let her continue
to be as you have supposed,
and be assured that she will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure.

Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your conscience leads you;

for you know I respect the conscience of others,
as I would die
for my own.

Elfonzo,
if I am worthy of thy love,
let such conversation never again pass between us.

Go,
seek a nobler theme!

we will seek it in the stream of time,
as the sun set in the Tigris. "

As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo,
saying at the same time--"Peace and prosperity attend you,
my hero;
be up and doing!" Closing her remarks
with this expression,
she walked slowly away,
leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed.

He ventured not
to follow or detain her.

Here he stood alone,
gazing at the stars;
confounded as he was,
here he stood.

Yes;
there he stood.

There seems
to be no doubt about that.

Nearly half of this delirious story has now been delivered
to the reader.

It seems a pity
to reduce the other half
to a cold synopsis.

Pity!

it is more than a pity,
it is a crime;

for
to synopsize McClintock is
to reduce a sky-flushing conflagration
to dull embers,
it is
to reduce barbaric splendor
to ragged poverty.

McClintock never wrote a line that was not precious;
he never wrote one that could be spared;
he never framed one from which a word could be removed without damage.

Every sentence that this master has produced may be likened
to a perfect set of teeth,
white,
uniform,
beautiful.

If you pull one,
the charm is gone. Still,
it is now necessary
to begin
to pull,
and
to keep it up;

for lack of space requires us
to synopsize. We left Elfonzo standing there amazed.

At what,
we do not know.

Not at the girl's speech.

No;
we ourselves should have been amazed at it,
of course,

for none of us has ever heard anything resembling it;
but Elfonzo was used
to speeches made up of noise and vacancy,
and could listen
to them
with undaunted mind like the "topmost topaz of an ancient tower";
he was used
to making them himself;
he--but let it go,
it cannot be guessed out;
we shall never know what it was that astonished him.

He stood there awhile;
then he said,
"Alas!

am I now Grief's disappointed son at last?"

He did not stop
to examine his mind,
and
to try
to find out what he probably meant by that,
because,

for one reason,
"a mixture of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart," and started him
for the village.

He resumed his bench in school,
"and reasonably progressed in his education. "

His heart was heavy,
but he went in
to society,
and sought surcease of sorrow in its light distractions.

He made himself popular
with his violin,
"which seemed
to have a thousand chords--more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo,
and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills. "

This is obscure,
but let it go. During this interval Leos did some unencouraged courting,
but at last,
"choked by his undertaking," he desisted. Presently "Elfonzo again wends his way
to the stately walls and new-built village. "

He goes
to the house of his beloved;
she opens the door herself.


to my surprise--
for Ambulinia's heart had still seemed free at the time of their last interview--love beamed from the girl's eyes.

One sees that Elfonzo was surprised,
too;

for when he caught that light,
"a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein. "

A neat figure--a very neat figure,
indeed!

Then he kissed her.

"The scene was overwhelming. "

They went in
to the parlor.

The girl said it was safe,

for her parents were abed,
and would never know.

Then we have this fine picture--flung upon the canvas
with hardly an effort,
as you will notice.

Advancing toward him,
she gave a bright display of her rosy neck,
and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;
her robe hung waving
to his view,
while she stood like a goddess confessed before him.

There is nothing of interest in the couple's interview.

Now at this point the girl invites Elfonzo
to a village show,
where jealousy is the motive of the play,

for she wants
to teach him a wholesome lesson,
if he is a jealous person.

But this is a sham,
and pretty shallow.

McClintock merely wants a pretext
to drag in a plagiarism of his upon a scene or two in "Othello. "


The lovers went
to the play.

Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers.

He and Ambulinia must not been seen together,
lest trouble follow
with the girl's malignant father;
we are made
to understand that clearly.

So the two sit together in the orchestra,
in the midst of the musicians.

This does not seem
to be good art.

In the first place,
the girl would be in the way,

for orchestras are always packed closely together,
and there is no room
to spare
for people's girls;
in the next place,
one cannot conceal a girl in an orchestra without everybody taking notice of it.

There can be no doubt,
it seems
to me,
that this is bad art. Leos is present.

Of course,
one of the first things that catches his eye is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia "leaning upon Elfonzo's chair. "

This poor girl does not seem
to understand even the rudiments of concealment.

But she is "in her seventeenth," as the author phrases it,
and that is her justification. Leos meditates,
constructs a plan--
with personal violence as a basis,
of course.

It was their way down there.

It is a good plain plan,
without any imagination in it.

He will go out and stand at the front door,
and when these two come out he will "arrest Ambulinia from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo," and thus make
for himself a "more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence,
or ever pencil drew or artist imagined. "

But,
dear me,
while he is waiting there the couple climb out at the back window and scurry home!

This is romantic enough,
but there is a lack of dignity in the situation. At this point McClintock puts in the whole of his curious play-- which we skip. Some correspondence follows now.

The bitter father and the distressed lovers write the letters.

Elopements are attempted.

They are idiotically planned,
and they fail.

Then we have several pages of romantic powwow and confusion dignifying nothing.

Another elopement is planned;
it is
to take place on Sunday,
when everybody is at church.

But the "hero" cannot keep the secret;
he tells everybody.

Another author would have found another instrument when he decided
to defeat this elopement;
but that is not McClintock's way.

He uses the person that is nearest at hand. The evasion failed,
of course.

Ambulinia,
in her flight,
takes refuge in a neighbor's house.

Her father drags her home.

The villagers gather,
attracted by the racket.

Elfonzo was moved at this sight.

The people followed on
to see what was going
to become of Ambulinia,
while he,

with downcast looks,
kept at a distance,
until he saw them enter the abode of the father,
thrusting her,
that was the sigh of his soul,
out of his presence in
to a solitary apartment,
when she exclaimed,
"Elfonzo!

Elfonzo!

oh,
Elfonzo!

where art thou,

with all thy heroes?

haste,
oh!

haste,
come thou
to my relief.

Ride on the wings of the wind!

Turn thy force loose like a tempest,
and roll on thy army like a whirlwind,
over this mountain of trouble and confusion.

Oh friends!

if any pity me,
let your last efforts throng upon the green hills,
and come
to the relief of Ambulinia,
who is guilty of nothing but innocent love. "

Elfonzo called out
with a loud voice,
"My God,
can I stand this!

arouse up,
I beseech you,
and put an end
to this tyranny.

Come,
my brave boys," said he,
"are you ready
to go forth
to your duty?"

They stood around him.

"Who," said he,
"will call us
to arms?

Where are my thunderbolts of war?

Speak ye,
the first who will meet the foe!

Who will go forward
with me in this ocean of grievous temptation?

If there is one who desires
to go,
let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion,
and swear that he will be a hero;
yes,
a Hector in a cause like this,
which calls aloud
for a speedy remedy. "

"Mine be the deed," said a young lawyer,
"and mine alone;
Venus alone shall quit her station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise
to you;
what is death
to me?

what is all this warlike army,
if it is not
to win a victory?

I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty;
nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak
with that of my own.

But God forbid that our fame should soar on the blood of the slumberer. "

Mr. Valeer stands at his door
with the frown of a demon upon his brow,

with his dangerous weapon [3] ready
to strike the first man who should enter his door.

"Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage
to the rescue of my Ambulinia?"

said Elfonzo.

"All," exclaimed the multitude;
and onward they went,

with their implements of battle.

Others,
of a more timid nature,
stood among the distant hills
to see the result of the contest.

It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning not a drop of rain fell;
but such is the fact.

Elfonzo and his gang stood up and black-guarded Mr. Valeer
with vigor all night,
getting their outlay back
with interest;
then in the early morning the army and its general retired from the field,
leaving the victory
with their solitary adversary and his crowbar.

This is the first time this has happened in romantic literature.

The invention is original.

Everything in this book is original;
there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere.

Always,
in other romances,
when you find the author leading up
to a climax,
you know what is going
to happen.

But in this book it is different;
the thing which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens;
it is circumvented by the art of the author every time. Another elopement was attempted.

It failed. We have now arrived at the end.

But it is not exciting.

McClintock thinks it is;
but it isn't.

One day Elfonzo sent Ambulinia another note--a note proposing elopement No.

16.

This time the plan is admirable;
admirable,
sagacious,
ingenious,
imaginative,
deep-- oh,
everything,
and perfectly easy.

One wonders why it was never thought of before.

This is the scheme.

Ambulinia is
to leave the breakfast-table,
ostensibly
to "attend
to the placing of those flowers,
which should have been done a week ago"--artificial ones,
of course;
the others wouldn't keep so long--and then,
instead of fixing the flowers,
she is
to walk out
to the grove,
and go off
with Elfonzo.

The invention of this plan overstrained the author that is plain,

for he straightway shows failing powers.

The details of the plan are not many or elaborate.

The author shall state them himself-- this good soul,
whose intentions are always better than his English:
"You walk carelessly toward the academy grove,
where you will find me
with a lightning steed,
elegantly equipped
to bear you off where we shall be joined in wedlock
with the first connubial rights. "


Last scene of all,
which the author,
now much enfeebled,
tries
to smarten up and make acceptable
to his spectacular heart by introducing some new properties--silver bow,
golden harp,
olive branch--things that can all come good in an elopement,
no doubt,
yet are not
to be compared
to an umbrella
for real handiness and reliability in an excursion of that kind.

And away she ran
to the sacred grove,
surrounded
with glittering pearls,
that indicated her coming.

Elfonzo hails her
with his silver bow and his golden harp.

The meet--Ambulinia's countenance brightens-- Elfonzo leads up the winged steed.

"Mount," said he,
"ye true-hearted,
ye fearless soul--the day is ours. "

She sprang upon the back of the young thunderbolt,
a brilliant star sparkles upon her head,

with one hand she grasps the reins,
and
with the other she holds an olive branch.

"Lend thy aid,
ye strong winds," they exclaimed,
"ye moon,
ye sun,
and all ye fair host of heaven,
witness the enemy conquered. "

"Hold," said Elfonzo,
"thy dashing steed. "

"Ride on," said Ambulinia,
"the voice of thunder is behind us. "

And onward they went,

with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat,
where they dismounted,
and were united
with all the solemnities that usually attended such divine operations.

There is but one Homer,
there is but one Shakespeare,
there is but one McClintock--and his immortal book is before you.

Homer could not have written this book,
Shakespeare could not have written it,
I could not have done it myself.

There is nothing just like it in the literature of any country or of any epoch.

It stands alone;
it is monumental.

It adds G.

Ragsdale McClintock's
to the sum of the republic's imperishable names. - - -
1.

The name here given is a substitute
for the one actually attached
to the pamphlet. 2.

Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert on the fiddle,
and has a three-township fame. 3.

It is a crowbar.

***
THE CURIOUS BOOK
Complete
[The foregoing review of the great work of G.

Ragsdale McClintock is liberally illuminated
with sample extracts,
but these cannot appease the appetite.

Only the complete book,
unabridged,
can do that.

Therefore it is here printed. --M. T. ]
THE ENEMY CONQUERED;
OR,
LOVE TRIUMPHANT
Sweet girl,
thy smiles are full of charms,
Thy voice is sweeter still,
It fills the breast
with fond alarms,
Echoed by every rill.

I begin this little work
with an eulogy upon woman,
who has ever been distinguished
for her perseverance,
her constancy,
and her devoted attention
to those upon whom she has been pleased
to place her AFFECTIONS.

Many have been the themes upon which writers and public speakers have dwelt
with intense and increasing interest.

Among these delightful themes stands that of woman,
the balm
to all our sighs and disappointments,
and the most pre-eminent of all other topics.

Here the poet and orator have stood and gazed
with wonder and
with admiration;
they have dwelt upon her innocence,
the ornament of all her virtues.

First viewing her external charms,
such as set forth in her form and benevolent countenance,
and then passing
to the deep hidden springs of loveliness and disinterested devotion.

In every clime,
and in every age,
she has been the pride of her NATION.

Her watchfulness is untiring;
she who guarded the sepulcher was the first
to approach it,
and the last
to depart from its awful yet sublime scene.

Even here,
in this highly favored land,
we look
to her
for the security of our institutions,
and
for our future greatness as a nation.

But,
strange as it may appear,
woman's charms and virtues are but slightly appreciated by thousands.

Those who should raise the standard of female worth,
and paint her value
with her virtues,
in living colors,
upon the banners that are fanned by the zephyrs of heaven,
and hand them down
to posterity as emblematical of a rich inheritance,
do not properly estimate them. Man is not sensible,
at all times,
of the nature and the emotions which bear that name;
he does not understand,
he will not comprehend;
his intelligence has not expanded
to that degree of glory which drinks in the vast revolution of humanity,
its end,
its mighty destination,
and the causes which operated,
and are still operating,

to produce a more elevated station,
and the objects which energize and enliven its consummation.

This he is a stranger to;
he is not aware that woman is the recipient of celestial love,
and that man is dependent upon her
to perfect his character;
that without her,
philosophically and truly speaking,
the brightest of his intelligence is but the coldness of a winter moon,
whose beams can produce no fruit,
whose solar light is not its own,
but borrowed from the great dispenser of effulgent beauty.

We have no disposition in the world
to flatter the fair sex,
we would raise them above those dastardly principles which only exist in little souls,
contracted hearts,
and a distracted brain.

Often does she unfold herself in all her fascinating loveliness,
presenting the most captivating charms;
yet we find man frequently treats such purity of purpose
with indifference.

Why does he do it?

Why does he baffle that which is inevitably the source of his better days?

Is he so much of a stranger
to those excellent qualities as not
to appreciate woman,
as not
to have respect
to her dignity?

Since her art and beauty first captivated man,
she has been his delight and his comfort;
she has shared alike in his misfortunes and in his prosperity. Whenever the billows of adversity and the tumultuous waves of trouble beat high,
her smiles subdue their fury.

Should the tear of sorrow and the mournful sigh of grief interrupt the peace of his mind,
her voice removes them all,
and she bends from her circle
to encourage him onward.

When darkness would obscure his mind,
and a thick cloud of gloom would bewilder its operations,
her intelligent eye darts a ray of streaming light in
to his heart.

Mighty and charming is that disinterested devotion which she is ever ready
to exercise toward man,
not waiting till the last moment of his danger,
but seeks
to relieve him in his early afflictions.

It gushes forth from the expansive fullness of a tender and devoted heart,
where the noblest,
the purest,
and the most elevated and refined feelings are matured and developed in those may kind offices which invariably make her character. In the room of sorrow and sickness,
this unequaled characteristic may always been seen,
in the performance of the most charitable acts;
nothing that she can do
to promote the happiness of him who she claims
to be her protector will be omitted;
all is invigorated by the animating sunbeams which awaken the heart
to songs of gaiety.

Leaving this point,

to notice another prominent consideration,
which is generally one of great moment and of vital importance.

Invariably she is firm and steady in all her pursuits and aiMs. There is required a combination of forces and extreme opposition
to drive her from her position;
she takes her stand,
not
to be moved by the sound of Apollo's lyre or the curved bow of pleasure. Firm and true
to what she undertakes,
and that which she requires by her own aggrandizement,
and regards as being within the strict rules of propriety,
she will remain stable and unflinching
to the last.

A more genuine principle is not
to be found in the most determined,
resolute heart of man.


for this she deserves
to be held in the highest commendation,

for this she deserves the purest of all other blessings,
and
for this she deserves the most laudable reward of all others.

It is a noble characteristic and is worthy of imitation of any age.

And when we look at it in one particular aspect,
it is still magnified,
and grows brighter and brighter the more we reflect upon its eternal duration.

What will she not do,
when her word as well as her affections and LOVE are pledged
to her lover?

Everything that is dear
to her on earth,
all the hospitalities of kind and loving parents,
all the sincerity and loveliness of sisters,
and the benevolent devotion of brothers,
who have surrounded her
with every comfort;
she will forsake them all,
quit the harmony and sweet sound of the lute and the harp,
and throw herself upon the affections of some devoted admirer,
in whom she fondly hopes
to find more than she has left behind,
which is not often realized by many.

Truth and virtue all combined!

How deserving our admiration and love!

Ah cruel would it be in man,
after she has thus manifested such an unshaken confidence in him,
and said by her determination
to abandon all the endearments and blandishments of home,

to act a villainous part,
and prove a traitor in the revolution of his mission,
and then turn Hector over the innocent victim whom he swore
to protect,
in the presence of Heaven,
recorded by the pen of an angel. Striking as this train may unfold itself in her character,
and as pre-eminent as it may stand among the fair display of her other qualities,
yet there is another,
which struggles in
to existence,
and adds an additional luster
to what she already possesses.

I mean that disposition in woman which enables her,
in sorrow,
in grief,
and in distress,

to bear all
with enduring patience.

This she has done,
and can and will do,
amid the din of war and clash of arMs. Scenes and occurrences which,

to every appearance,
are calculated
to rend the heart
with the profoundest emotions of trouble,
do not fetter that exalted principle imbued in her very nature.

It is true,
her tender and feeling heart may often be moved (as she is thus constituted),
but she is not conquered,
she has not given up
to the harlequin of disappointments,
her energies have not become clouded in the last movement of misfortune,
but she is continually invigorated by the archetype of her affections.

She may bury her face in her hands,
and let the tear of anguish roll,
she may promenade the delightful walks of some garden,
decorated
with all the flowers of nature,
or she may steal out along some gently rippling stream,
and there,
as the silver waters uninterruptedly move forward,
shed her silent tears;
they mingle
with the waves,
and take a last farewell of their agitated home,

to seek a peaceful dwelling among the rolling floods;
yet there is a voice rushing from her breast,
that proclaims VICTORY along the whole line and battlement of her affections.

That voice is the voice of patience and resignation;
that voice is one that bears everything calmly and dispassionately,
amid the most distressing scenes;
when the fates are arrayed against her peace,
and apparently plotting
for her destruction,
still she is resigned. Woman's affections are deep,
consequently her troubles may be made
to sink deep.

Although you may not be able
to mark the traces of her grief and the furrowings of her anguish upon her winning countenance,
yet be assured they are nevertheless preying upon her inward person,
sapping the very foundation of that heart which alone was made
for the weal and not the woe of man.

The deep recesses of the soul are fields
for their operation.

But they are not destined simply
to take the regions of the heart
for their dominion,
they are not satisfied merely
with interrupting her better feelings;
but after a while you may see the blooming cheek beginning
to droop and fade,
her intelligent eye no longer sparkles
with the starry light of heaven,
her vibrating pulse long since changed its regular motion,
and her palpitating bosom beats once more
for the midday of her glory.

Anxiety and care ultimately throw her in
to the arms of the haggard and grim monster death.

But,
oh,
how patient,
under every pining influence!

Let us view the matter in bolder colors;
see her when the dearest object of her affections recklessly seeks every bacchanalian pleasure,
contents himself
with the last rubbish of creation.


with what solicitude she awaits his return!

Sleep fails
to perform its office--she weeps while the nocturnal shades of the night triumph in the stillness.

Bending over some favorite book,
whilst the author throws before her mind the most beautiful imagery,
she startles at every sound.

The midnight silence is broken by the solemn announcement of the return of another morning.

He is still absent;
she listens
for that voice which has so often been greeted by the melodies of her own;
but,
alas!

stern silence is all that she receives
for her vigilance. Mark her unwearied watchfulness,
as the night passes away.

At last,
brutalized by the accursed thing,
he staggers along
with rage,
and,
shivering
with cold,
he makes his appearance.

Not a murmur is heard from her lips.

On the contrary,
she meets him
with a smile--she caresses him
with tender arms,

with all the gentleness and softness of her sex.

Here,
then,
is seen her disposition,
beautifully arrayed.

Woman,
thou art more
to be admired than the spicy gales of Arabia,
and more sought
for than the gold of Golconda.

We believe that Woman should associate freely
with man,
and we believe that it is
for the preservation of her rights.

She should become acquainted
with the metaphysical designs of those who condescended
to sing the siren song of flattery.

This,
we think,
should be according
to the unwritten law of decorum,
which is stamped upon every innocent heart.

The precepts of prudery are often steeped in the guilt of contamination,
which blasts the expectations of better moments.

Truth,
and beautiful dreams--loveliness,
and delicacy of character,

with cherished affections of the ideal woman-- gentle hopes and aspirations,
are enough
to uphold her in the storms of darkness,
without the transferred colorings of a stained sufferer.

How often have we seen it in our public prints,
that woman occupies a false station in the world!

and some have gone so far as
to say it was an unnatural one.

So long has she been regarded a weak creature,
by the rabble and illiterate--they have looked upon her as an insufficient actress on the great stage of human life--a mere puppet,

to fill up the drama of human existence--a thoughtless,
inactive being-- that she has too often come
to the same conclusion herself,
and has sometimes forgotten her high destination,
in the meridian of her glory.

We have but little sympathy or patience
for those who treat her as a mere Rosy Melindi--who are always fishing
for pretty complements-- who are satisfied by the gossamer of Romance,
and who can be allured by the verbosity of high-flown words,
rich in language,
but poor and barren in sentiment.

Beset,
as she has been,
by the intellectual vulgar,
the selfish,
the designing,
the cunning,
the hidden,
and the artful--no wonder she has sometimes folded her wings in despair,
and forgotten her HEAVENLY mission in the delirium of imagination;
no wonder she searches out some wild desert,

to find a peaceful home.

But this cannot always continue.

A new era is moving gently onward,
old things are rapidly passing away;
old superstitions,
old prejudices,
and old notions are now bidding farewell
to their old associates and companions,
and giving way
to one whose wings are plumed
with the light of heaven and tinged by the dews of the morning.

There is a remnant of blessedness that clings
to her in spite of all evil influence,
there is enough of the Divine Master left
to accomplish the noblest work ever achieved under the canopy of the vaulted skies;
and that time is fast approaching,
when the picture of the true woman will shine from its frame of glory,

to captivate,

to win back,

to restore,
and
to call in
to being once more,
THE OBJECT OF HER MISSION.

Star of the brave!

thy glory shed,
O'er all the earth,
thy army led--
Bold meteor of immortal birth!
Why come from Heaven
to dwell on Earth?
Mighty and glorious are the days of youth;
happy the moments of the LOVER,
mingled
with smiles and tears of his devoted,
and long
to be remembered are the achievements which he gains
with a palpitating heart and a trembling hand.

A bright and lovely dawn,
the harbinger of a fair and prosperous day,
had arisen over the beautiful little village of Cumming,
which is surrounded by the most romantic scenery in the Cherokee country.

Brightening clouds seemed
to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee,

to spread their beauty over the the thick forest,

to guide the hero whose bosom beats
with aspirations
to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name,
and
to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.

He endeavored
to make his way through Sawney's Mountain,
where many meet
to catch the gales that are continually blowing
for the refreshment of the stranger and the traveler.

Surrounded as he was by hills on every side,
naked rocks dared the efforts of his energies.

Soon the sky became overcast,
the sun buried itself in the clouds,
and the fair day gave place
to gloomy twilight,
which lay heavily on the Indian Plains.

He remembered an old Indian Castle,
that once stood at the foot of the mountain.

He thought if he could make his way
to this,
he would rest contented
for a short time.

The mountain air breathed fragrance--a rosy tinge rested on the glassy waters that murmured at its base.

His resolution soon brought him
to the remains of the red man's hut:

he surveyed
with wonder and astonishment the decayed building,
which time had buried in the dust,
and thought
to himself,
his happiness was not yet complete.

Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man,
about eighteen or twenty,
who seemed
to be reading some favorite book,
and who had a remarkably noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.

This of course made the youth a welcome guest,
and gained him friends in whatever condition of life he might be placed.

The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure,
which showed strength and grace in every movement.

He accordingly addressed him in quite a gentlemanly manner,
and inquired of him the way
to the village.

After he had received the desired information,
and was about taking his leave,
the youth said,
"Are you not Major Elfonzo,
the great musician--the champion of a noble cause-- the modern Achilles,
who gained so many victories in the Florida War?"

"I bear that name," said the Major,
"and those titles,
trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings,
and if," continued the Major,
"you,
sir,
are the patronizer of noble deeds,
I should like
to make you my confidant and learn your address. "

The youth looked somewhat amazed,
bowed low,
mused
for a moment,
and began:

"My name is Roswell.

I have been recently admitted
to the bar,
and can only give a faint outline of my future success in that honorable profession;
but I trust,
sir,
like the Eagle,
I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,
and shall ever be ready
to give you any assistance in my official capacity,
and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do,
whenever it shall be called from its buried GREATNESS. "

The Major grasped him by the hand,
and exclaimed:

"O!

thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame of burning prosperity,
may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare of thy soul,
and battle down every rampart that seems
to impede your progress!"
The road which led
to the town presented many attractions.

Elfonzo had bid farewell
to the youth of deep feeling,
and was not wending his way
to the dreaming spot of his fondness.

The south winds whistled through the woods,
as the waters dashed against the banks,
as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.

This brought him
to remember while alone,
that he quietly left behind the hospitality of a father's house,
and gladly entered the world,

with higher hopes than are often realized.

But as he journeyed onward,
he was mindful of the advice of his father,
who had often looked sadly on the ground when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eye.

Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son;
yet fond of the amusements of life--had been in distant lands--had enjoyed the pleasure of the world and had frequently returned
to the scenes of his boyhood,
almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.

In this condition,
he would frequently say
to his father,
"Have I offended you,
that you look upon me as a stranger,
and frown upon me
with stinging looks?

Will you not favor me
with the sound of your voice?

If I have trampled upon your veneration,
or have spread a humid veil of darkness around your expectations,
send me back in
to the world where no heart beats
for me--where the foot of man has never yet trod;
but give me at least one kind word--allow me
to come in
to the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks. "

"Forbid it,
Heaven,
that I should be angry
with thee," answered the father,
"my son,
and yet I send thee back
to the children of the world--
to the cold charity of the combat,
and
to a land of victory.

I read another destiny in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has already kindled in my soul a stranger sensation.

It will seek thee,
my dear ELFONZO,
it will find thee--thou canst not escape that lighted torch,
which shall blot out from the remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee.

I once thought not so.

Once,
I was blind;
but now the path of life is plain before me,
and my sight is clear;
yet Elfonzo,
return
to thy worldly occupation--take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds--struggle
with the civilized world,
and
with your own heart;
fly swiftly
to the enchanted ground-- let the night-OWL send forth its screams from the stubborn oak-- let the sea sport upon the beach,
and the stars sing together;
but learn of these,
Elfonzo,
thy doom,
and thy hiding-place.

Our most innocent as well as our most lawful DESIRES must often be denied us,
that we may learn
to sacrifice them
to a Higher will. "


Remembering such admonitions
with gratitude,
Elfonzo was immediately urged by the recollection of his father's family
to keep moving.

His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,
dark as the forest was,
and
with joy he very soon reached the little village or repose,
in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.

His close attention
to every important object--his modest questions about whatever was new
to him--his reverence
for wise old age,
and his ardent desire
to learn many of the fine arts,
soon brought him in
to respectable notice. One mild winter day as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,
which stood upon a small eminence,
surrounded by native growth-- some venerable in its appearance,
others young and prosperous-- all seemed inviting,
and seemed
to be the very place
for learning as well as
for genius
to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.

He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.

The principal of the Institution begged him
to be seated and listen
to the recitations that were going on.

He accordingly obeyed the request,
and seemed
to be much pleased.

After the school was dismissed,
and the young hearts regained their freedom,

with the songs of the evening,
laughing at the anticipated pleasures of a happy home,
while others tittered at the actions of the past day,
he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution--
with an undaunted mind.

He said he had determined
to become a student,
if he could meet
with his approbation.

"Sir," said he,
"I have spent much time in the world.

I have traveled among the uncivilized inhabitants of America.

I have met
with friends,
and combated
with foes;
but none of these gratify my ambition,
or decide what is
to be my destiny.

I see the learned would have an influence
with the voice of the people themselves.

The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their differences
to this class of persons.

This the illiterate and inexperienced little dream of;
and now if you will receive me as I am,

with these deficiencies--
with all my misguided opinions,
I will give you my honor,
sir,
that I will never disgrace the Institution,
or those who have placed you in this honorable station. "

The instructor,
who had met
with many disappointments,
knew how
to feel
for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities of an unfeeling community.

He looked at him earnestly,
and said:

"Be of good cheer--look forward,
sir,

to the high destination you may attain.

Remember,
the more elevated the mark at which you aim,
the more sure,
the more glorious,
the more magnificent the prize. "

From wonder
to wonder,
his encouragement led the impatient listener.

A stranger nature bloomed before him--giant streams promised him success--gardens of hidden treasures opened
to his view.

All this,
so vividly described,
seemed
to gain a new witchery from his glowing fancy. In 1842 he entered the class,
and made rapid progress in the English and Latin departments.

Indeed,
he continued advancing
with such rapidity that he was like
to become the first in his class,
and made such unexpected progress,
and was so studious,
that he had almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections.

The fresh wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously
to drop once more the dews of Heavens upon the heads of those who had so often poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs.

He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there.

So one evening,
as he was returning from his reading,
he concluded he would pay a visit
to this enchanting spot.

Little did he think of witnessing a shadow of his former happiness,
though no doubt he wished it might be so.

He continued sauntering by the roadside,
meditating on the past.

The nearer he approached the spot,
the more anxious he became.

At the moment a tall female figure flitted across his path,

with a bunch of roses in her hand;
her countenance showed uncommon vivacity,

with a resolute spirit;
her ivory teeth already appeared as she smiled beautifully,
promenading--while her ringlets of hair dangled unconsciously around her snowy neck.

Nothing was wanting
to complete her beauty.

The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek;
the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates. .

In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that never faded-- one that never was conquered.

Her heart yielded
to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo,
on whom she gazed
with intense delight,
and
to whom she felt herself more closely bound ,because he sought the hand of no other.

Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie.

His books no longer were his inseparable companions--his thoughts arrayed themselves
to encourage him in the field of victory.

He endeavored
to speak
to his supposed Ambulinia,
but his speech appeared not in words.

No,
his effort was a stream of fire,
that kindled his soul in
to a flame of admiration,
and carried his senses away captive.

Ambulinia had disappeared,

to make him more mindful of his duty.

As she walked speedily away through the piny woods she calmly echoed:

"O!

Elfonzo,
thou wilt now look from thy sunbeaMs. Thou shalt now walk in a new path-- perhaps thy way leads through darkness;
but fear not,
the stars foretell happiness. "


Not many days afterward,
as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat one evening at twilight,

to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes of melody along the distant groves,
the little birds perched on every side,
as if
to watch the movements of their new visitor.

The bells were tolling when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers,
holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music-- his eye continually searching
for Ambulinia,
who hardly seemed
to perceive him,
as she played carelessly
with the songsters that hopped from branch
to branch.

Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two.

Nature seemed
to have given the more tender soul
to Elfonzo,
and the stronger and more courageous
to Ambulinia.

A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo-- such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed as admirers,
and by those who are able
to return the same
with sincerity of heart.

He was a few years older than Ambulinia:

she had turned a little in
to her seventeenth.

He had almost grown up in the Cherokee country,

with the same equal proportions as one of the natives.

But little intimacy had existed between them until the year forty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely girl was too exalted
to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet reverence.

But as lovers will not always be insulted,
at all times and under all circumstances,
by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old age,
which should continually reflect dignity upon those around,
and treat unfortunate as well as the fortunate
with a graceful mien,
he continued
to use diligence and perseverance.

All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character,
and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm
to check its rage in the forest,
he resolves
for the first time
to shake off his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped. It could not escape Ambulinia's penetrating eye that he sought an interview
with her,
which she as anxiously avoided,
and assumed a more distant calmness than before,
seemingly
to destroy all hope.

After many efforts and struggles
with his own person,

with timid steps the Major approached the damsel,

with the same caution as he would have done in a field of battle.

"Lady Ambulinia," said he,
trembling,
"I have long desired a moment like this.

I dare not let it escape.

I fear the consequences;
yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition.

Can you not anticipate what I would say,
and what I am about
to express?

Will not you,
like Minerva,
who sprung from the brain of Jupiter,
release me from thy winding chains or cure me--" "Say no more,
Elfonzo," answered Ambulinia,

with a serious look,
raising her hand as if she intended
to swear eternal hatred against the whole world;
"another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter coldness.

I know not the little arts of my sex.

I care but little
for the vanity of those who would chide me,
and am unwilling as well as shamed
to be guilty of anything that would lead you
to think 'all is not gold that glitters';
so be not rash in your resolution.

It is better
to repent now than
to do it in a more solemn hour.

Yes,
I know what you would say.

I know you have a costly gift
for me--the noblest that man can make-- YOUR HEART!

you should not offer it
to one so unworthy.

Heaven,
you know,
has allowed my father's house
to be made a house of solitude,
a home of silent obedience,
which my parents say is more
to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles.

Notwithstanding all this,
let me speak the emotions of an honest heart;
allow me
to say in the fullness of my hopes that I anticipate better days.

The bird may stretch its wings toward the sun,
which it can never reach;
and flowers of the field appear
to ascend in the same direction,
because they cannot do otherwise;
but man confides his complaints
to the saints in whom he believes;

for in their abodes of light they know no more sorrow.

From your confession and indicative looks,
I must be that person;
if so,
deceive not yourself. "


Elfonzo replied,
"Pardon me,
my dear madam,

for my frankness.

I have loved you from my earliest days;
everything grand and beautiful hath borne the image of Ambulinia;
while precipices on every hand surrounded me,
your GUARDIAN ANGEL stood and beckoned me away from the deep abyss.

In every trial,
in every misfortune,
I have met
with your helping hand;
yet I never dreamed or dared
to cherish thy love till a voice impaired
with age encouraged the cause,
and declared they who acquired thy favor should win a victory.

I saw how Leos worshipped thee.

I felt my own unworthiness.

I began
to KNOW JEALOUSY--a strong guest,
indeed,
in my bosom-- yet I could see if I gained your admiration Leos was
to be my rival.

I was aware that he had the influence of your parents,
and the wealth of a deceased relative,
which is too often mistaken
for permanent and regular tranquillity;
yet I have determined by your permission
to beg an interest in your prayers--
to ask you
to animate my dropping spirits by your smiles and your winning looks;

for if you but speak I shall be conqueror,
my enemies shall stagger like Olympus shakes.

And though earth and sea may tremble,
and the charioteer of the sun may forget his dashing steed,
yet I am assured that it is only
to arm me
with divine weapons which will enable me
to complete my long-tried intention. "


"Return
to your self,
Elfonzo," said Ambulinia,
pleasantly;
"a dream of vision has disturbed your intellect;
you are above the atmosphere,
dwelling in the celestial regions;
nothing is there that urges or hinders,
nothing that brings discord in
to our present litigation.

I entreat you
to condescend a little,
and be a man,
and forget it all.

When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting
with giants and dragons,
they represent under this image our struggles
with the delusions of our passions.

You have exalted me,
an unhappy girl,

to the skies;
you have called me a saint,
and portrayed in your imagination an angel in human form.

Let her remain such
to you,
let her continue
to be as you have supposed,
and be assured that she will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure.

Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your conscience leads you;

for you know I respect the conscience of others,
as I would die
for my own.

Elfonzo,
if I am worthy of thy love,
let such conversation never again pass between us.

Go,
seek a nobler theme!

we will seek it in the stream of time as the sun set in the Tigris. "

As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo,
saying at the same time,
"Peace and prosperity attend you,
my hero:

be up and doing!' Closing her remarks
with this expression,
she walked slowly away,
leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed.

He ventured not
to follow or detain her.

Here he stood alone,
gazing at the stars;
confounded as he was,
here he stood.

The rippling stream rolled on at his feet.

Twilight had already begun
to draw her sable mantle over the earth,
and now and then the fiery smoke would ascend from the little town which lay spread out before him.

The citizens seemed
to be full of life and good-humor;
but poor Elfonzo saw not a brilliant scene.

No;
his future life stood before him,
stripped of the hopes that once adorned all his sanguine desires.

"Alas!" said he,
"am I now Grief's disappointed son at last. "

Ambulinia's image rose before his fancy.

A mixture of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart,
and encouraged him
to bear all his crosses
with the patience of a Job,
notwithstanding he had
to encounter
with so many obstacles.

He still endeavored
to prosecute his studies,
and reasonable progressed in his education.

Still,
he was not content;
there was something yet
to be done before his happiness was complete.

He would visit his friends and acquaintances.

They would invite him
to social parties,
insisting that he should partake of the amusements that were going on.

This he enjoyed tolerably well.

The ladies and gentlemen were generally well pleased
with the Major;
as he delighted all
with his violin,
which seemed
to have a thousand chords-- more symphonious than the Muses of Apollo and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills.

He passed some days in the country.

During that time Leos had made many calls upon Ambulinia,
who was generally received
with a great deal of courtesy by the family.

They thought him
to be a young man worthy of attention,
though he had but little in his soul
to attract the attention or even win the affections of her whose graceful manners had almost made him a slave
to every bewitching look that fell from her eyes.

Leos made several attempts
to tell her of his fair prospects-- how much he loved her,
and how much it would add
to his bliss if he could but think she would be willing
to share these blessings
with him;
but,
choked by his undertaking,
he made himself more like an inactive drone than he did like one who bowed at beauty's shrine. Elfonzo again wends his way
to the stately walls and new-built village.

He now determines
to see the end of the prophesy which had been foretold
to him.

The clouds burst from his sight;
he believes if he can but see his Ambulinia,
he can open
to her view the bloody altars that have been misrepresented
to stigmatize his name.

He knows that her breast is transfixed
with the sword of reason,
and ready at all times
to detect the hidden villainy of her enemies.

He resolves
to see her in her own home,

with the consoling theme:

"'I can but perish if I go. ' Let the consequences be what they may," said he,
"if I die,
it shall be contending and struggling
for my own rights. "


Night had almost overtaken him when he arrived in town.

Colonel Elder,
a noble-hearted,
high-minded,
and independent man,
met him at his door as usual,
and seized him by the hand.

"Well,
Elfonzo," said the Colonel,
"how does the world use you in your efforts?"

"I have no objection
to the world," said Elfonzo,
"but the people are rather singular in some of their opinions. "

"Aye,
well," said the Colonel,
"you must remember that creation is made up of many mysteries;
just take things by the right handle;
be always sure you know which is the smooth side before you attempt your polish;
be reconciled
to your fate,
be it what it may;
and never find fault
with your condition,
unless your complaining will benefit it.

Perseverance is a principle that should be commendable in those who have judgment
to govern it.

I should never had been so successful in my hunting excursions had I waited till the deer,
by some magic dream,
had been drawn
to the muzzle of the gun before I made an attempt
to fire at the game that dared my boldness in the wild forest.

The great mystery in hunting seems
to be--a good marksman,
a resolute mind,
a fixed determination,
and my world
for it,
you will never return home without sounding your horn
with the breath of a new victory.

And so
with every other undertaking.

Be confident that your ammunition is of the right kind--always pull your trigger
with a steady hand,
and so soon as you perceive a calm,
touch her off,
and the spoils are yours. "


This filled him
with redoubled vigor,
and he set out
with a stronger anxiety than ever
to the home of Ambulinia.

A few short steps soon brought him
to the door,
half out of breath.

He rapped gently.

Ambulinia,
who sat in the parlor alone,
suspecting Elfonzo was near,
ventured
to the door,
opened it,
and beheld the hero,
who stood in an humble attitude,
bowed gracefully,
and as they caught each other's looks the light of peace beamed from the eyes of Ambulinia.

Elfonzo caught the expression;
a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein,
and
for the first time he dared
to impress a kiss upon her cheek.

The scene was overwhelming;
had the temptation been less animating,
he would not have ventured
to have acted so contrary
to the desired wish of his Ambulinia;
but who could have withstood the irrestistable temptation!

What society condemns the practice but a cold,
heartless,
uncivilized people that know nothing of the warm attachments of refined society?

Here the dead was raised
to his long-cherished hopes,
and the lost was found.

Here all doubt and danger were buried in the vortex of oblivion;
sectional differences no longer disunited their opinions;
like the freed bird from the cage,
sportive claps its rustling wings,
wheels about
to heaven in a joyful strain,
and raises its notes
to the upper sky.

Ambulinia insisted upon Elfonzo
to be seated,
and give her a history of his unnecessary absence;
assuring him the family had retired,
consequently they would ever remain ignorant of his visit.

Advancing toward him,
she gave a bright display of her rosy neck,
and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;
her robe hung waving
to his view,
while she stood like a goddess confessed before him. "

It does seem
to me,
my dear sir," said Ambulinia,
"that you have been gone an age.

Oh,
the restless hours I have spent since I last saw you,
in yon beautiful grove.

There is where I trifled
with your feelings
for the express purpose of trying your attachment
for me.

I now find you are devoted;
but ah!

I trust you live not unguarded by the powers of Heaven.

Though oft did I refuse
to join my hand
with thine,
and as oft did I cruelly mock thy entreaties
with borrowed shapes:

yes,
I feared
to answer thee by terms,
in words sincere and undissembled.

O!

could I pursue,
and you have leisure
to hear the annals of my woes,
the evening star would shut Heaven's gates upon the impending day before my tale would be finished,
and this night would find me soliciting your forgiveness. "


"Dismiss thy fears and thy doubts," replied Elfonzo. "

Look,
O!

look:

that angelic look of thine--bathe not thy visage in tears;
banish those floods that are gathering;
let my confession and my presence being thee some relief. "

"Then,
indeed,
I will be cheerful," said Ambulinia,
"and I think if we will go
to the exhibition this evening,
we certainly will see something worthy of our attention.

One of the most tragical scenes is
to be acted that has ever been witnessed,
and one that every jealous-hearted person should learn a lesson from.

It cannot fail
to have a good effect,
as it will be performed by those who are young and vigorous,
and learned as well as enticing.

You are aware,
Major Elfonzo,
who are
to appear on the stage,
and what the characters are
to represent. "

"I am acquainted
with the circumstances," replied Elfonzo,
"and as I am
to be one of the musicians upon that interesting occasion,
I should be much gratified if you would favor me
with your company during the hours of the exercises. "


"What strange notions are in your mind?"

inquired Ambulinia.

"Now I know you have something in view,
and I desire you
to tell me why it is that you are so anxious that I should continue
with you while the exercises are going on;
though if you think I can add
to your happiness and predilections,
I have no particular objection
to acquiesce in your request.

Oh,
I think I foresee,
now,
what you anticipate. "

"And will you have the goodness
to tell me what you think it will be?"

inquired Elfonzo.

"By all means," answered Ambulinia;
"a rival,
sir,
you would fancy in your own mind;
but let me say
for you,
fear not!

fear not!

I will be one of the last persons
to disgrace my sex by thus encouraging every one who may feel disposed
to visit me,
who may honor me
with their graceful bows and their choicest compliments.

It is true that young men too often mistake civil politeness
for the finer emotions of the heart,
which is tantamount
to courtship;
but,
ah!

how often are they deceived,
when they come
to test the weight of sunbeams
with those on whose strength hangs the future happiness of an untried life. "


The people were now rushing
to the Academy
with impatient anxiety;
the band of music was closely followed by the students;
then the parents and guardians;
nothing interrupted the glow of spirits which ran through every bosom,
tinged
with the songs of a Virgil and the tide of a Homer.

Elfonzo and Ambulinia soon repaired
to the scene,
and fortunately
for them both the house was so crowded that they took their seats together in the music department,
which was not in view of the auditory.

This fortuitous circumstances added more the bliss of the Major than a thousand such exhibitions would have done.

He forgot that he was man;
music had lost its charms
for him;
whenever he attempted
to carry his part,
the string of the instrument would break,
the bow became stubborn,
and refused
to obey the loud calls of the audience.

Here,
he said,
was the paradise of his home,
the long-sought-
for opportunity;
he felt as though he could send a million supplications
to the throne of Heaven
for such an exalted privilege.

Poor Leos,
who was somewhere in the crowd,
looking as attentively as if he was searching
for a needle in a haystack;
here is stood,
wondering
to himself why Ambulinia was not there.

"Where can she be?

Oh!

if she was only here,
how I could relish the scene!

Elfonzo is certainly not in town;
but what if he is?

I have got the wealth,
if I have not the dignity,
and I am sure that the squire and his lady have always been particular friends of mine,
and I think
with this assurance I shall be able
to get upon the blind side of the rest of the family and make the heaven-born Ambulinia the mistress of all I possess. "

Then,
again,
he would drop his head,
as if attempting
to solve the most difficult problem in Euclid.

While he was thus conjecturing in his own mind,
a very interesting part of the exhibition was going on,
which called the attention of all present.

The curtains of the stage waved continually by the repelled forces that were given
to them,
which caused Leos
to behold Ambulinia leaning upon the chair of Elfonzo.

Her lofty beauty,
seen by the glimmering of the chandelier,
filled his heart
with rapture,
he knew not how
to contain himself;

to go where they were would expose him
to ridicule;

to continue where he was,

with such an object before him,
without being allowed an explanation in that trying hour,
would be
to the great injury of his mental as well as of his physical powers;
and,
in the name of high heaven,
what must he do?

Finally,
he resolved
to contain himself as well as he conveniently could,
until the scene was over,
and then he would plant himself at the door,

to arrest Ambulinia from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo,
and thus make
for himself a more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed by Omnipotence,
or ever pencil drew or artist imagined.

Accordingly he made himself sentinel,
immediately after the performance of the evening-- retained his position apparently in defiance of all the world;
he waited,
he gazed at every lady,
his whole frame trembled;
here he stood,
until everything like human shape had disappeared from the institution,
and he had done nothing;
he had failed
to accomplish that which he so eagerly sought for.

Poor,
unfortunate creature!

he had not the eyes of an Argus,
or he might have seen his Juno and Elfonzo,
assisted by his friend Sigma,
make their escape from the window,
and,

with the rapidity of a race-horse,
hurry through the blast of the storm
to the residence of her father,
without being recognized.

He did not tarry long,
but assured Ambulinia the endless chain of their existence was more closely connected than ever,
since he had seen the virtuous,
innocent,
imploring,
and the constant Amelia murdered by the jealous-hearted Farcillo,
the accursed of the land. The following is the tragical scene,
which is only introduced
to show the subject-matter that enabled Elfonzo
to come
to such a determinate resolution that nothing of the kind should ever dispossess him of his true character,
should he be so fortunate as
to succeed in his present undertaking. Amelia was the wife of Farcillo,
and a virtuous woman;
Gracia,
a young lady,
was her particular friend and confidant.

Farcillo grew jealous of Amelia,
murders her,
finds out that he was deceived,
AND STABS HIMSELF.

Amelia appears alone,
talking
to herself. A.

Hail,
ye solitary ruins of antiquity,
ye sacred tombs and silent walks!

it is your aid I invoke;
it is
to you,
my soul,
wrapt in deep mediating,
pours forth its prayer.

Here I wander upon the stage of mortality,
since the world hath turned against me.

Those whom I believed
to be my friends,
alas!

are now my enemies,
planting thorns in all my paths,
poisoning all my pleasures,
and turning the past
to pain.

What a lingering catalogue of sighs and tears lies just before me,
crowding my aching bosom
with the fleeting dream of humanity,
which must shortly terminate.

And
to what purpose will all this bustle of life,
these agitations and emotions of the heart have conduced,
if it leave behind it nothing of utility,
if it leave no traces of improvement?

Can it be that I am deceived in my conclusions?

No,
I see that I have nothing
to hope for,
but everything
for fear,
which tends
to drive me from the walks of time.

Oh!

in this dead night,
if loud winds arise,

to lash the surge and bluster in the skies,
May the west its furious rage display,
Toss me
with storms in the watery way.

(Enter Gracia. )
G.

Oh,
Amelia,
is it you,
the object of grief,
the daughter of opulence,
of wisdom and philosophy,
that thus complaineth?

It cannot be you are the child of misfortune,
speaking of the monuments of former ages,
which were allotted not
for the reflection of the distressed,
but
for the fearless and bold. A.

Not the child of poverty,
Gracia,
or the heir of glory and peace,
but of fate.

Remember,
I have wealth more than wit can number;
I have had power more than kings could emcompass;
yet the world seems a desert;
all nature appears an afflictive spectacle of warring passions.

This blind fatality,
that capriciously sports
with the rules and lives of mortals,
tells me that the mountains will never again send forth the water of their springs
to my thirst.

Oh,
that I might be freed and set at liberty from wretchedness!

But I fear,
I fear this will never be. G.

Why,
Amelia,
this untimely grief?

What has caused the sorrows that bespeak better and happier days,

to those lavish out such heaps of misery?

You are aware that your instructive lessons embellish the mind
with holy truths,
by wedding its attention
to none but great and noble affections. A.

This,
of course,
is some consolation.

I will ever love my own species
with feelings of a fond recollection,
and while I am studying
to advance the universal philanthropy,
and the spotless name of my own sex,
I will try
to build my own upon the pleasing belief that I have accelerated the advancement of one who whispers of departed confidence.

And I,
like some poor peasant fated
to reside
Remote from friends,
in a forest wide. Oh,
see what woman's woes and human wants require,
Since that great day hath spread the seed of sinful fire.

G.

Look up,
thou poor disconsolate;
you speak of quitting earthly enjoyments.

Unfold thy bosom
to a friend,
who would be willing
to sacrifice every enjoyment
for the restoration of the dignity and gentleness of mind which used
to grace your walks,
and which is so natural
to yourself;
not only that,
but your paths were strewed
with flowers of every hue and of every order.


with verdant green the mountains glow,

for thee,

for thee,
the lilies grow;
Far stretched beneath the tented hills,
A fairer flower the valley fills.

A.

Oh,
would
to Heaven I could give you a short narrative of my former prospects
for happiness,
since you have acknowledged
to be an unchangeable confidant--the richest of all other blessings.

Oh,
ye names forever glorious,
ye celebrated scenes,
ye renowned spot of my hymeneal moments;
how replete is your chart
with sublime reflections!

How many profound vows,
decorated
with immaculate deeds,
are written upon the surface of that precious spot of earth where I yielded up my life of celibacy,
bade youth
with all its beauties a final adieu,
took a last farewell of the laurels that had accompanied me up the hill of my juvenile career.

It was then I began
to descend toward the valley of disappointment and sorrow;
it was then I cast my little bark upon a mysterious ocean of wedlock,

with him who then smiled and caressed me,
but,
alas!

now frowns
with bitterness,
and has grown jealous and cold toward me,
because the ring he gave me is misplaced or lost.

Oh,
bear me,
ye flowers of memory,
softly through the eventful history of past times;
and ye places that have witnessed the progression of man in the circle of so many societies,
and,
of,
aid my recollection,
while I endeavor
to trace the vicissitudes of a life devoted in endeavoring
to comfort him that I claim as the object of my wishes.

Ah!

ye mysterious men,
of all the world,
how few
Act just
to Heaven and
to your promise true!
But He who guides the stars
with a watchful eye,
The deeds of men lay open without disguise;
Oh,
this alone will avenge the wrongs I bear,

for all the oppressed are His peculiar care.

(F.

makes a slight noise. )
A.

Who is there--Farcillo?
G.

Then I must gone.

Heaven protect you.

Oh,
Amelia,
farewell,
be of good cheer.

May you stand like Olympus' towers,
Against earth and all jealous powers!
May you,

with loud shouts ascend on high
Swift as an eagle in the upper sky.

A.

Why so cold and distant tonight,
Farcillo?

Come,
let us each other greet,
and forget all the past,
and give security
for the future. F.

Security!

talk
to me about giving security
for the future-- what an insulting requisition!

Have you said your prayers tonight,
Madam Amelia?
A.

Farcillo,
we sometimes forget our duty,
particularly when we expect
to be caressed by others. F.

If you bethink yourself of any crime,
or of any fault,
that is yet concealed from the courts of Heaven and the thrones of grace,
I bid you ask and solicit forgiveness
for it now. A.

Oh,
be kind,
Farcillo,
don't treat me so.

What do you mean by all this?
F.

Be kind,
you say;
you,
madam,
have forgot that kindness you owe
to me,
and bestowed it upon another;
you shall suffer
for your conduct when you make your peace
with your God.

I would not slay thy unprotected spirit.

I call
to Heaven
to be my guard and my watch-- I would not kill thy soul,
in which all once seemed just,
right,
and perfect;
but I must be brief,
woman. A.

What,
talk you of killing?

Oh,
Farcillo,
Farcillo,
what is the matter?
F.

Aye,
I do,
without doubt;
mark what I say,
Amelia. A.

Then,
O God,
O Heaven,
and Angels,
be propitious,
and have mercy upon me. F.

Amen
to that,
madam,

with all my heart,
and
with all my soul. A.

Farcillo,
listen
to me one moment;
I hope you will not kill me. F.

Kill you,
aye,
that I will;
attest it,
ye fair host of light,
record it,
ye dark imps of hell!
A.

Oh,
I fear you--you are fatal when darkness covers your brow;
yet I know not why I should fear,
since I never wronged you in all my life.

I stand,
sir,
guiltless before you. F.

You pretend
to say you are guiltless!

Think of thy sins,
Amelia;
think,
oh,
think,
hidden woman. A.

Wherein have I not been true
to you?

That death is unkind,
cruel,
and unnatural,
that kills
for living. F.

Peace,
and be still while I unfold
to thee. A.

I will,
Farcillo,
and while I am thus silent,
tell me the cause of such cruel coldness in an hour like this. F.

That RING,
oh,
that ring I so loved,
and gave thee as the ring of my heart;
the allegiance you took
to be faithful,
when it was presented;
the kisses and smiles
with which you honored it.

You became tired of the donor,
despised it as a plague,
and finally gave it
to Malos,
the hidden,
the vile traitor. A.

No,
upon my word and honor,
I never did;
I appeal
to the Most High
to bear me out in this matter.

Send
for Malos,
and ask him. F.

Send
for Malos,
aye!

Malos you wish
to see;
I thought so.

I knew you could not keep his name concealed.

Amelia,
sweet Amelia,
take heed,
take heed of perjury;
you are on the stage of death,

to suffer
for YOUR SINS. A.

What,
not
to die I hope,
my Farcillo,
my ever beloved. F.

Yes,
madam,

to die a traitor's death.

Shortly your spirit shall take its exit;
therefore confess freely thy sins,

for
to deny tends only
to make me groan under the bitter cup thou hast made
for me.

Thou art
to die
with the name of traitor on thy brow!
A.

Then,
O Lord,
have mercy upon me;
give me courage,
give me grace and fortitude
to stand this hour of trial. F.

Amen,
I say,

with all my heart. A.

And,
oh,
Farcillo,
will you have mercy,
too?

I never intentionally offended you in all my life,
never LOVED Malos,
never gave him cause
to think so,
as the high court of Justice will acquit me before its tribunal. F.

Oh,
false,
perjured woman,
thou didst chill my blood,
and makest me a demon like thyself.

I saw the ring. A.

He found it,
then,
or got it clandestinely;
send
for him,
and let him confess the truth;
let his confession be sifted. F.

And you still
with
to see him!

I tell you,
madam,
he hath already confessed,
and thou knowest the darkness of thy heart. A.

What,
my deceived Farcillo,
that I gave him the ring,
in which all my affections were concentrated?

Oh,
surely not. F.

Aye,
he did.

Ask thy conscience,
and it will speak
with a voice of thunder
to thy soul. A.

He will not say so,
he dare not,
he cannot. F.

No,
he will not say so now,
because his mouth,
I trust,
is hushed in death,
and his body stretched
to the four winds of heaven,

to be torn
to pieces by carnivorous birds. A.

What,
he is dead,
and gone
to the world of spirits
with that declaration in his mouth?

Oh,
unhappy man!

Oh,
insupportable hour!
F.

Yes,
and had all his sighs and looks and tears been lives,
my great revenge could have slain them all,
without the least condemnation. A.

Alas!

he is ushered in
to eternity without testing the matter
for which I am abused and sentenced and condemned
to die. F.

Cursed,
infernal woman!

Weepest thou
for him
to my face?

He that hath robbed me of my peace,
my energy,
the whole love of my life?

Could I call the fabled Hydra,
I would have him live and perish,
survive and die,
until the sun itself would grow dim
with age.

I would make him have the thirst of a Tantalus,
and roll the wheel of an Ixion,
until the stars of heaven should quit their brilliant stations. A.

Oh,
invincible God,
save me!

Oh,
unsupportable moment!

Oh,
heavy hour!

Banish me,,
Farcillo--send me where no eye can ever see me,
where no sound shall ever great my ear;
but,
oh,
slay me not,
Farcillo;
vent thy rage and thy spite upon this emaciated frame of mine,
only spare my life. F.

Your petitions avail nothing,
cruel Amelia. A.

Oh,
Farcillo,
perpetrate the dark deed tomorrow;
let me live till then,

for my past kindness
to you,
and it may be some kind angel will show
to you that I am not only the object of innocence,
but one who never loved another but your noble self. F.

Amelia,
the decree has gone forth,
it is
to be done,
and that quickly;
thou art
to die,
madam. A.

But half an hour allow me,

to see my father and my only child,

to tell her the treachery and vanity of this world. F.

There is no alternative,
there is no pause:

my daughter shall not see its deceptive mother die;
your father shall not know that his daughter fell disgraced,
despised by all but her enchanting Malos. A.

Oh,
Farcillo,
put up thy threatening dagger in
to its scabbard;
let it rest and be still,
just while I say one prayer
for thee and
for my child. F.

It is too late,
thy doom is fixed,
thou hast not confessed
to Heaven or
to me,
my child's protector--thou art
to die.

Ye powers of earth and heaven,
protect and defend me in this alone.

(STABS HER WHILE IMPLORING
FOR MERCY. )
A.

Oh,
Farcillo,
Farcillo,
a guiltless death I die. F.

Die!

die!

die!
(Gracia enters running,
falls on her knees weeping,
and kisses Amelia. )
G.

Oh,
Farcillo,
Farcillo!

oh,
Farcillo!
F.

I am here,
the genius of the age,
and the avenger of my wrongs. G.

Oh,
lady,
speak once more;
sweet Amelia,
on,
speak again.

Gone,
gone--yes,
forever gone!

Farcillo,
oh,
cold-hearted Farcillo,
some evil fiend hath urged you
to do this,
Farcillo. F.

Say not so again,
or you shall receive the same fate.

I did the glorious deed,
madam--beware,
then,
how you talk. G.

I fear not your implements of war;
I will let you know you have not the power
to do me harm.

If you have a heart of triple brass,
it shall be reached and melted,
and thy blood shall chill thy veins and grow stiff in thy arteries.

Here is the ring of the virtuous and innocent murdered Amelia;
I obtained it from Malos,
who yet lives,
in hopes that he will survive the wound given him,
and says he got it clandestinely--declares Amelia
to be the princess of truth and virtue,
invulnerable
to anything like forgetting her first devotion
to thee.

The world has heard of your conduct and your jealousy,
and
with one universal voice declares her
to be the best of all in piety;
that she is the star of this great universe,
and a more virtuous woman never lived since the wheels of time began.

Oh,
had you waited till tomorrow,
or until I had returned,
some kind window would have been opened
to her relief.

But,
alas!

she is gone--yes,
forever gone,

to try the realities of an unknown world!
(Farcillo leaning over the body of Amelia. )
F.

Malos not dead,
and here is my ring!

Oh,
Amelia!

falsely murdered!

Oh,
bloody deed!

Oh,
wretch that I am!

Oh,
angels forgive me!

Oh,
God,
withhold thy vengeance!

Oh,
Amelia!

if Heaven would make a thousand worlds like this,
set
with diamonds,
and all of one perfect chrysolite,
I would not have done this
for them all,
I would not have frowned and cursed as I did.

Oh,
she was heavenly true,
nursed in the very lap of bright angels!

Cursed slave that I am!

Jealousy,
oh!

thou infernal demon!

Lost,
lost
to every sense of honor!

Oh!

Amelia-- heaven-born Amelia--dead,
dead!

Oh!

oh!

oh!--then let me die
with thee.

Farewell!

farewell!

ye world that deceived me!

(STABS HIMSELF. )
Soon after the excitement of this tragical scene was over,
and the enlisted feeling
for Amelia had grown more buoyant
with Elfonzo and Ambulinia,
he determined
to visit his retired home,
and make the necessary improvements
to enjoy a better day;
consequently he conveyed the following lines
to Ambulinia:
Go tell the world that hope is glowing,
Go bid the rocks their silence break,
Go tell the stars that love is glowing,
Then bid the hero his lover take.

In the region where scarcely the foot of man hath ever trod,
where the woodman hath not found his way,
lies a blooming grove,
seen only by the sun when he mounts his lofty throne,
visited only by the light of the stars,

to whom are entrusted the guardianship of earth,
before the sun sinks
to rest in his rosy bed.

High cliffs of rocks surround the romantic place,
and in the small cavity of the rocky wall grows the daffodil clear and pure;
and as the wind blows along the enchanting little mountain which surrounds the lonely spot,
it nourishes the flowers
with the dew-drops of heaven.

Here is the seat of Elfonzo;
darkness claims but little victory over this dominion,
and in vain does she spread out her gloomy wings.

Here the waters flow perpetually,
and the trees lash their tops together
to bid the welcome visitor a happy muse.

Elfonzo,
during his short stay in the country,
had fully persuaded himself that it was his duty
to bring this solemn matter
to an issue.

A duty that he individually owed,
as a gentleman,

to the parents of Ambulinia,
a duty in itself involving not only his own happiness and his own standing in society,
but one that called aloud the act of the parties
to make it perfect and complete.

How he should communicate his intentions
to get a favorable reply,
he was at a loss
to know;
he knew not whether
to address Esq.

Valeer in prose or in poetry,
in a jocular or an argumentative manner,
or whether he should use moral suasion,
legal injunction,
or seizure and take by reprisal;
if it was
to do the latter,
he would have no difficulty in deciding in his own mind,
but his gentlemanly honor was at stake;
so he concluded
to address the following letter
to the father and mother of Ambulinia,
as his address in person he knew would only aggravate the old gentleman,
and perhaps his lady.


Cumming,
Ga. ,
January 22,
1844
Mr. and Mrs. Valeer--
Again I resume the pleasing task of addressing you,
and once more beg an immediate answer
to my many salutations.

From every circumstance that has taken place,
I feel in duty bound
to comply
with my obligations;

to forfeit my word would be more than I dare do;

to break my pledge,
and my vows that have been witnessed,
sealed,
and delivered in the presence of an unseen Deity,
would be disgraceful on my part,
as well as ruinous
to Ambulinia.

I wish no longer
to be kept in suspense about this matter.

I wish
to act gentlemanly in every particular.

It is true,
the promises I have made are unknown
to any but Ambulinia,
and I think it unnecessary
to here enumerate them,
as they who promise the most generally perform the least.

Can you
for a moment doubt my sincerity or my character?

My only wish is,
sir,
that you may calmly and dispassionately look at the situation of the case,
and if your better judgment should dictate otherwise,
my obligations may induce me
to pluck the flower that you so diametrically opposed.

We have sword by the saints--by the gods of battle,
and by that faith whereby just men are made perfect--
to be united.

I hope,
my dear sir,
you will find it convenient as well as agreeable
to give me a favorable answer,

with the signature of Mrs. Valeer,
as well as yourself.


with very great esteem,
your humble servant,
J.

I.

Elfonzo.


The moon and stars had grown pale when Ambulinia had retired
to rest.

A crowd of unpleasant thoughts passed through her bosom.

Solitude dwelt in her chamber--no sound from the neighboring world penetrated its stillness;
it appeared a temple of silence,
of repose,
and of mystery.

At that moment she heard a still voice calling her father.

In an instant,
like the flash of lightning,
a thought ran through her mind that it must be the bearer of Elfonzo's communication.

"It is not a dream!" she said,
"no,
I cannot read dreaMs. Oh!

I would
to Heaven I was near that glowing eloquence--that poetical language--it charms the mind in an inexpressible manner,
and warms the coldest heart. "

While consoling herself
with this strain,
her father rushed in
to her room almost frantic
with rage,
exclaiming:

"Oh,
Ambulinia!

Ambulinia!!

undutiful,
ungrateful daughter!

What does this mean?

Why does this letter bear such heart-rending intelligence?

Will you quit a father's house
with this debased wretch,
without a place
to lay his distracted head;
going up and down the country,

with every novel object that many chance
to wander through this region.

He is a pretty man
to make love known
to his superiors,
and you,
Ambulinia,
have done but little credit
to yourself by honoring his visits.

Oh,
wretchedness!

can it be that my hopes of happiness are forever blasted!

Will you not listen
to a father's entreaties,
and pay some regard
to a mother's tears.

I know,
and I do pray that God will give me fortitude
to bear
with this sea of troubles,
and rescue my daughter,
my Ambulinia,
as a brand from the eternal burning. "

"Forgive me,
father,
oh!

forgive thy child," replied Ambulinia.

"My heart is ready
to break,
when I see you in this grieved state of agitation.

Oh!

think not so meanly of me,
as that I mourn
for my own danger.

Father,
I am only woman.

Mother,
I am only the templement of thy youthful years,
but will suffer courageously whatever punishment you think proper
to inflict upon me,
if you will but allow me
to comply
with my most sacred promises--if you will but give me my personal right and my personal liberty.

Oh,
father!

if your generosity will but give me these,
I ask nothing more.

When Elfonzo offered me his heart,
I gave him my hand,
never
to forsake him,
and now may the mighty God banish me before I leave him in adversity.

What a heart must I have
to rejoice in prosperity
with him whose offers I have accepted,
and then,
when poverty comes,
haggard as it may be,

for me
to trifle
with the oracles of Heaven,
and change
with every fluctuation that may interrupt our happiness-- like the politician who runs the political gantlet
for office one day,
and the next day,
because the horizon is darkened a little,
he is seen running
for his life,

for fear he might perish in its ruins.

Where is the philosophy,
where is the consistency,
where is the charity,
in conduct like this?

Be happy then,
my beloved father,
and forget me;
let the sorrow of parting break down the wall of separation and make us equal in our feeling;
let me now say how ardently I love you;
let me kiss that age-worn cheek,
and should my tears bedew thy face,
I will wipe them away.

Oh,
I never can forget you;
no,
never,
never!"
"Weep not," said the father,
"Ambulinia.

I will forbid Elfonzo my house,
and desire that you may keep retired a few days.

I will let him know that my friendship
for my family is not linked together by cankered chains;
and if he ever enters upon my premises again,
I will send him
to his long home. "

"Oh,
father!

let me entreat you
to be calm upon this occasion,
and though Elfonzo may be the sport of the clouds and winds,
yet I feel assured that no fate will send him
to the silent tomb until the God of the Universe calls him hence
with a triumphant voice. "


Here the father turned away,
exclaiming:

"I will answer his letter in a very few words,
and you,
madam,
will have the goodness
to stay at home
with your mother;
and remember,
I am determined
to protect you from the consuming fire that looks so fair
to your view. "


Cumming,
January 22,
1844.

Sir--In regard
to your request,
I am as I ever have been,
utterly opposed
to your marrying in
to my family;
and if you have any regard
for yourself,
or any gentlemanly feeling,
I hope you will mention it
to me no more;
but seek some other one who is not so far superior
to you in standing.

W.

W.

Valeer.


When Elfonzo read the above letter,
he became so much depressed in spirits that many of his friends thought it advisable
to use other means
to bring about the happy union.

"Strange," said he,
"that the contents of this diminutive letter should cause me
to have such depressed feelings;
but there is a nobler theme than this.

I know not why my MILITARY TITLE is not as great as that of SQUIRE VALEER.


for my life I cannot see that my ancestors are inferior
to those who are so bitterly opposed
to my marriage
with Ambulinia.

I know I have seen huge mountains before me,
yet,
when I think that I know gentlemen will insult me upon this delicate matter,
should I become angry at fools and babblers,
who pride themselves in their impudence and ignorance?

No.

My equals!

I know not where
to find them.

My inferiors!

I think it beneath me;
and my superiors!

I think it presumption;
therefore,
if this youthful heart is protected by any of the divine rights,
I never will betray my trust. "


He was aware that Ambulinia had a confidence that was,
indeed,
as firm and as resolute as she was beautiful and interesting.

He hastened
to the cottage of Louisa,
who received him in her usual mode of pleasantness,
and informed him that Ambulinia had just that moment left.

"Is it possible?"

said Elfonzo.

"Oh,
murdered hours!

Why did she not remain and be the guardian of my secrets?

But hasten and tell me how she has stood this trying scene,
and what are her future determinations. "

"You know," said Louisa,
"Major Elfonzo,
that you have Ambulinia's first love,
which is of no small consequence.

She came here about twilight,
and shed many precious tears in consequence of her own fate
with yours.

We walked silently in yon little valley you see,
where we spent a momentary repose.

She seemed
to be quite as determined as ever,
and before we left that beautiful spot she offered up a prayer
to Heaven
for thee. "

"I will see her then," replied Elfonzo,
"though legions of enemies may oppose.

She is mine by foreordination-- she is mine by prophesy--she is mine by her own free will,
and I will rescue her from the hands of her oppressors.

Will you not,
Miss Louisa,
assist me in my capture?"


"I will certainly,
by the aid of Divine Providence," answered Louisa,
"endeavor
to break those slavish chains that bind the richest of prizes;
though allow me,
Major,

to entreat you
to use no harsh means on this important occasion;
take a decided stand,
and write freely
to Ambulinia upon this subject,
and I will see that no intervening cause hinders its passage
to her.

God alone will save a mourning people.

Now is the day and now is the hour
to obey a command of such valuable worth. "

The Major felt himself grow stronger after this short interview
with Louisa.

He felt as if he could whip his weight in wildcats-- he knew he was master of his own feelings,
and could now write a letter that would bring this litigation
to AN ISSUE.


Cumming,
January 24,
1844. Dear Ambulinia--
We have now reached the most trying moment of our lives;
we are pledged not
to forsake our trust;
we have waited
for a favorable hour
to come,
thinking your friends would settle the matter agreeably among themselves,
and finally be reconciled
to our marriage;
but as I have waited in vain,
and looked in vain,
I have determined in my own mind
to make a proposition
to you,
though you may think it not in accord
with your station,
or compatible
with your rank;
yet,
"sub loc signo vinces. "

You know I cannot resume my visits,
in consequence of the utter hostility that your father has
to me;
therefore the consummation of our union will have
to be sought
for in a more sublime sphere,
at the residence of a respectable friend of this village.

You cannot have an scruples upon this mode of proceeding,
if you will but remember it emanates from one who loves you better than his own life--who is more than anxious
to bid you welcome
to a new and happy home.

Your warmest associates say come;
the talented,
the learned,
the wise,
and the experienced say come;--all these
with their friends say,
come.

Viewing these,

with many other inducements,
I flatter myself that you will come
to the embraces of your Elfonzo;

for now is the time of your acceptance of the day of your liberation.

You cannot be ignorant,
Ambulinia,
that thou art the desire of my heart;
its thoughts are too noble,
and too pure,

to conceal themselves from you.

I shall wait
for your answer
to this impatiently,
expecting that you will set the time
to make your departure,
and
to be in readiness at a moment's warning
to share the joys of a more preferable life.

This will be handed
to you by Louisa,
who will take a pleasure in communicating anything
to you that may relieve your dejected spirits,
and will assure you that I now stand ready,
willing,
and waiting
to make good my vows. I am,
dear Ambulinia,
your
truly,
and forever,
J.

I.

Elfonzo.


Louisa made it convenient
to visit Mr. Valeer's,
though they did not suspect her in the least the bearer of love epistles;
consequently,
she was invited in the room
to console Ambulinia,
where they were left alone.

Ambulinia was seated by a small table-- her head resting on her hand--her brilliant eyes were bathed in tears.

Louisa handed her the letter of Elfonzo,
when another spirit animated her features--the spirit of renewed confidence that never fails
to strengthen the female character in an hour of grief and sorrow like this,
and as she pronounced the last accent of his name,
she exclaimed,
"And does he love me yet!

I never will forget your generosity,
Louisa.

Oh,
unhappy and yet blessed Louisa!

may you never feel what I have felt--may you never know the pangs of love.

Had I never loved,
I never would have been unhappy;
but I turn
to Him who can save,
and if His wisdom does not will my expected union,
I know He will give me strength
to bear my lot.

Amuse yourself
with this little book,
and take it as an apology
for my silence," said Ambulinia,
"while I attempt
to answer this volume of consolation. "

"Thank you," said Louisa,
"you are excusable upon this occasion;
but I pray you,
Ambulinia,

to be expert upon this momentous subject,
that there may be nothing mistrustful upon my part. "

"I will," said Ambulinia,
and immediately resumed her seat and addressed the following
to Elfonzo:


Cumming,
Ga. ,
January 28,
1844. Devoted Elfonzo--
I hail your letter as a welcome messenger of faith,
and can now say truly and firmly that my feelings correspond
with yours.

Nothing shall be wanting on my part
to make my obedience your fidelity.

Courage and perseverance will accomplish success.

Receive this as my oath,
that while I grasp your hand in my own imagination,
we stand united before a higher tribunal than any on earth.

All the powers of my life,
soul,
and body,
I devote
to thee.

Whatever dangers may threaten me,
I fear not
to encounter them.

Perhaps I have determined upon my own destruction,
by leaving the house of the best of parents;
be it so;
I flee
to you;
I share your destiny,
faithful
to the end.

The day that I have concluded upon
for this task is SABBATH next,
when the family
with the citizens are generally at church.


for Heaven's sake let not that day pass unimproved:

trust not till tomorrow,
it is the cheat of life-- the future that never comes--the grave of many noble births-- the cavern of ruined enterprise:

which like the lightning's flash is born,
and dies,
and perishes,
ere the voice of him who sees can cry,
BEHOLD!

BEHOLD!!

You may trust
to what I say,
no power shall tempt me
to betray confidence.

Suffer me
to add one word more.

I will soothe thee,
in all thy grief,
Beside the gloomy river;
And though thy love may yet be brief;
Mine is fixed forever.

Receive the deepest emotions of my heart
for thy constant love,
and may the power of inspiration by thy guide,
thy portion,
and thy all.

In great haste,
Yours faithfully,
Ambulinia.


"I now take my leave of you,
sweet girl," said Louisa,
"sincerely wishing you success on Sabbath next. "

When Ambulinia's letter was handed
to Elfonzo,
he perused it without doubting its contents.

Louisa charged him
to make but few confidants;
but like most young men who happened
to win the heart of a beautiful girl,
he was so elated
with the idea that he felt as a commanding general on parade,
who had confidence in all,
consequently gave orders
to all.

The appointed Sabbath,

with a delicious breeze and cloudless sky,
made its appearance.

The people gathered in crowds
to the church-- the streets were filled
with neighboring citizens,
all marching
to the house of worship.

It is entirely useless
for me
to attempt
to describe the feelings of Elfonzo and Ambulinia,
who were silently watching the movements of the multitude,
apparently counting them as then entered the house of God,
looking
for the last one
to darken the door.

The impatience and anxiety
with which they waited,
and the bliss they anticipated on the eventful day,
is altogether indescribable.

Those that have been so fortunate as
to embark in such a noble enterprise know all its realities;
and those who have not had this inestimable privilege will have
to taste its sweets before they can tell
to others its joys,
its comforts,
and its Heaven-born worth.

Immediately after Ambulinia had assisted the family off
to church,
she took advantage of that opportunity
to make good her promises.

She left a home of enjoyment
to be wedded
to one whose love had been justifiable.

A few short steps brought her
to the presence of Louisa,
who urged her
to make good use of her time,
and not
to delay a moment,
but
to go
with her
to her brother's house,
where Elfonzo would forever make her happy.


with lively speed,
and yet a graceful air,
she entered the door and found herself protected by the champion of her confidence.

The necessary arrangements were fast making
to have the two lovers united-- everything was in readiness except the parson;
and as they are generally very sanctimonious on such occasions,
the news got
to the parents of Ambulinia before the everlasting knot was tied,
and they both came running,

with uplifted hands and injured feelings,

to arrest their daughter from an unguarded and hasty resolution.

Elfonzo desired
to maintain his ground,
but Ambulinia thought it best
for him
to leave,

to prepare
for a greater contest.

He accordingly obeyed,
as it would have been a vain endeavor
for him
to have battled against a man who was armed
with deadly weapons;
and besides,
he could not resist the request of such a pure heart.

Ambulinia concealed herself in the upper story of the house,
fearing the rebuke of her father;
the door was locked,
and no chastisement was now expected.

Esquire Valeer,
whose pride was already touched,
resolved
to preserve the dignity of his family.

He entered the house almost exhausted,
looking wildly
for Ambulinia.

"Amazed and astonished indeed I am," said he,
"at a people who call themselves civilized,

to allow such behavior as this.

Ambulinia,
Ambulinia!" he cried,
"come
to the calls of your first,
your best,
and your only friend.

I appeal
to you,
sir," turning
to the gentleman of the house,
"
to know where Ambulinia has gone,
or where is she?"

"Do you mean
to insult me,
sir,
in my own house?"

inquired the gentleman.

"I will burst," said Mr. V. ,
"asunder every door in your dwelling,
in search of my daughter,
if you do not speak quickly,
and tell me where she is.

I care nothing about that outcast rubbish of creation,
that mean,
low-lived Elfonzo,
if I can but obtain Ambulinia.

Are you not going
to open this door?"

said he.

"By the Eternal that made Heaven and earth!

I will go about the work instantly,
if this is not done!" The confused citizens gathered from all parts of the village,

to know the cause of this commotion.

Some rushed in
to the house;
the door that was locked flew open,
and there stood Ambulinia,
weeping.

"Father,
be still," said she,
"and I will follow thee home. "

But the agitated man seized her,
and bore her off through the gazing multitude.

"Father!" she exclaimed,
"I humbly beg your pardon--I will be dutiful--I will obey thy commands.

Let the sixteen years I have lived in obedience
to thee by my future security. "

"I don't like
to be always giving credit,
when the old score is not paid up,
madam," said the father.

The mother followed almost in a state of derangement,
crying and imploring her
to think beforehand,
and ask advice from experienced persons,
and they would tell her it was a rash undertaking.

"Oh!" said she,
"Ambulinia,
my daughter,
did you know what I have suffered-- did you know how many nights I have whiled away in agony,
in pain,
and in fear,
you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken mother. "


"Well,
mother," replied Ambulinia,
"I know I have been disobedient;
I am aware that what I have done might have been done much better;
but oh!

what shall I do
with my honor?

it is so dear
to me;
I am pledged
to Elfonzo.

His high moral worth is certainly worth some attention;
moreover,
my vows,
I have no doubt,
are recorded in the book of life,
and must I give these all up?

must my fair hopes be forever blasted?

Forbid it,
father;
oh!

forbid it,
mother;
forbid it,
Heaven. "

"I have seen so many beautiful skies overclouded," replied the mother,
"so many blossoms nipped by the frost,
that I am afraid
to trust you
to the care of those fair days,
which may be interrupted by thundering and tempestuous nights.

You no doubt think as I did--life's devious ways were strewn
with sweet-scented flowers,
but ah!

how long they have lingered around me and took their flight in the vivid hope that laughs at the drooping victims it has murdered. "

Elfonzo was moved at this sight.

The people followed on
to see what was going
to become of Ambulinia,
while he,

with downcast looks,
kept at a distance,
until he saw them enter the abode of the father,
thrusting her,
that was the sigh of his soul,
out of his presence in
to a solitary apartment,
when she exclaimed,
"Elfonzo!

Elfonzo!

oh,
Elfonzo!

where art thou,

with all thy heroes?

haste,
oh!

haste,
come thou
to my relief.

Ride on the wings of the wind!

Turn thy force loose like a tempest,
and roll on thy army like a whirlwind,
over this mountain of trouble and confusion.

Oh,
friends!

if any pity me,
let your last efforts throng upon the green hills,
and come
to the relief of Ambulinia,
who is guilty of nothing but innocent love. "

Elfonzo called out
with a loud voice,
"My God,
can I stand this!

arise up,
I beseech you,
and put an end
to this tyranny.

Come,
my brave boys," said he,
"are you ready
to go forth
to your duty?"

They stood around him.

"Who," said he,
"will call us
to arms?

Where are my thunderbolts of war?

Speak ye,
the first who will meet the foe!

Who will go forward
with me in this ocean of grievous temptation?

If there is one who desires
to go,
let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion,
and swear that he will be a hero;
yes,
a Hector in a cause like this,
which calls aloud
for a speedy remedy. "

"Mine be the deed," said a young lawyer,
"and mine alone;
Venus alone shall quit her station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise
to you;
what is death
to me?

what is all this warlike army,
if it is not
to win a victory?

I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty;
nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak
with that of my own.

But God forbid that our fame should soar on the blood of the slumberer. "

Mr. Valeer stands at his door
with the frown of a demon upon his brow,

with his dangerous weapon ready
to strike the first man who should enter his door.

"Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage
to the rescue of my Ambulinia?"

said Elfonzo.

"All," exclaimed the multitude;
and onward they went,

with their implements of battle.

Others,
of a more timid nature,
stood among the distant hills
to see the result of the contest. Elfonzo took the lead of his band.

Night arose in clouds;
darkness concealed the heavens;
but the blazing hopes that stimulated them gleamed in every bosom.

All approached the anxious spot;
they rushed
to the front of the house and,

with one exclamation,
demanded Ambulinia.

"Away,
begone,
and disturb my peace no more," said Mr. Valeer.

"You are a set of base,
insolent,
and infernal rascals.

Go,
the northern star points your path through the dim twilight of the night;
go,
and vent your spite upon the lonely hills;
pour forth your love,
you poor,
weak-minded wretch,
upon your idleness and upon your guitar,
and your fiddle;
they are fit subjects
for your admiration,

for let me assure you,
though this sword and iron lever are cankered,
yet they frown in sleep,
and let one of you dare
to enter my house this night and you shall have the contents and the weight of these instruments. "

"Never yet did base dishonor blur my name," said Elfonzo;
"mine is a cause of renown;
here are my warriors;
fear and tremble,

for this night,
though hell itself should oppose,
I will endeavor
to avenge her whom thou hast banished in solitude.

The voice of Ambulinia shall be heard from that dark dungeon. "

At that moment Ambulinia appeared at the window above,
and
with a tremulous voice said,
"Live,
Elfonzo!

oh!

live
to raise my stone of moss!

why should such language enter your heart?

why should thy voice rend the air
with such agitation?

I bid thee live,
once more remembering these tears of mine are shed alone
for thee,
in this dark and gloomy vault,
and should I perish under this load of trouble,
join the song of thrilling accents
with the raven above my grave,
and lay this tattered frame beside the banks of the Chattahoochee or the stream of Sawney's brook;
sweet will be the song of death
to your Ambulinia.

My ghost shall visit you in the smiles of Paradise,
and tell your high fame
to the minds of that region,
which is far more preferable than this lonely cell.

My heart shall speak
for thee till the latest hour;
I know faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow,
yet our souls,
Elfonzo,
shall hear the peaceful songs together.

One bright name shall be ours on high,
if we are not permitted
to be united here;
bear in mind that I still cherish my old sentiments,
and the poet will mingle the names of Elfonzo and Ambulinia in the tide of other days. "

"Fly,
Elfonzo,
" said the voices of his united band,
"
to the wounded heart of your beloved.

All enemies shall fall beneath thy sword.

Fly through the clefts,
and the dim spark shall sleep in death. "

Elfonzo rushes forward and strikes his shield against the door,
which was barricaded,

to prevent any intercourse.

His brave sons throng around him.

The people pour along the streets,
both male and female,

to prevent or witness the melancholy scene. "


to arms,

to arms!" cried Elfonzo;
"here is a victory
to be won,
a prize
to be gained that is more
to me that the whole world beside. "

"It cannot be done tonight," said Mr. Valeer.

"I bear the clang of death;
my strength and armor shall prevail.

My Ambulinia shall rest in this hall until the break of another day,
and if we fall,
we fall together.

If we die,
we die clinging
to our tattered rights,
and our blood alone shall tell the mournful tale of a murdered daughter and a ruined father. "

Sure enough,
he kept watch all night,
and was successful in defending his house and family.

The bright morning gleamed upon the hills,
night vanished away,
the Major and his associates felt somewhat ashamed that they had not been as fortunate as they expected
to have been;
however,
they still leaned upon their arms in dispersed groups;
some were walking the streets,
others were talking in the Major's behalf.

Many of the citizen suspended business,
as the town presented nothing but consternation.

A novelty that might end in the destruction of some worthy and respectable citizens.

Mr. Valeer ventured in the streets,
though not without being well armed.

Some of his friends congratulated him on the decided stand he had taken,
and hoped he would settle the matter amicably
with Elfonzo,
without any serious injury.

"Me," he replied,
"what,
me,
condescend
to fellowship
with a coward,
and a low-lived,
lazy,
undermining villain?

no,
gentlemen,
this cannot be;
I had rather be borne off,
like the bubble upon the dark blue ocean,

with Ambulinia by my side,
than
to have him in the ascending or descending line of relationship.

Gentlemen," continued he,
"if Elfonzo is so much of a distinguished character,
and is so learned in the fine arts,
why do you not patronize such men?

why not introduce him in
to your families,
as a gentleman of taste and of unequaled magnanimity?

why are you so very anxious that he should become a relative of mine?

Oh,
gentlemen,
I fear you yet are tainted
with the curiosity of our first parents,
who were beguiled by the poisonous kiss of an old ugly serpent,
and who,

for one APPLE,
DAMNED all mankind.

I wish
to divest myself,
as far as possible,
of that untutored custom.

I have long since learned that the perfection of wisdom,
and the end of true philosophy,
is
to proportion our wants
to our possessions,
our ambition
to our capacities;
we will then be a happy and a virtuous people. "

Ambulinia was sent off
to prepare
for a long and tedious journey.

Her new acquaintances had been instructed by her father how
to treat her,
and in what manner,
and
to keep the anticipated visit entirely secret.

Elfonzo was watching the movements of everybody;
some friends had told him of the plot that was laid
to carry off Ambulinia.

At night,
he rallied some two or three of his forces,
and went silently along
to the stately mansion;
a faint and glimmering light showed through the windows;
lightly he steps
to the door;
there were many voices rallying fresh in fancy's eye;
he tapped the shutter;
it was opened instantly,
and he beheld once more,
seated beside several ladies,
the hope of all his toils;
he rushed toward her,
she rose from her seat,
rejoicing;
he made one mighty grasp,
when Ambulinia exclaimed,
"Huzza
for Major Elfonzo!

I will defend myself and you,
too,

with this conquering instrument I hold in my hand;
huzza,
I say,
I now invoke time's broad wing
to shed around us some dewdrops of verdant spring. "


But the hour had not come
for this joyous reunion;
her friends struggled
with Elfonzo
for some time,
and finally succeeded in arresting her from his hands.

He dared not injure them,
because they were matrons whose courage needed no spur;
she was snatched from the arms of Elfonzo,

with so much eagerness,
and yet
with such expressive signification,
that he calmly withdrew from this lovely enterprise,

with an ardent hope that he should be lulled
to repose by the zephyrs which whispered peace
to his soul.

Several long days and night passed unmolested,
all seemed
to have grounded their arms of rebellion,
and no callidity appeared
to be going on
with any of the parties.

Other arrangements were made by Ambulinia;
she feigned herself
to be entirely the votary of a mother's care,
and she,
by her graceful smiles,
that manhood might claim his stern dominion in some other region,
where such boisterous love was not so prevalent.

This gave the parents a confidence that yielded some hours of sober joy;
they believed that Ambulinia would now cease
to love Elfonzo,
and that her stolen affections would now expire
with her misguided opinions.

They therefore declined the idea of sending her
to a distant land.

But oh!

they dreamed not of the rapture that dazzled the fancy of Ambulinia,
who would say,
when alone,
youth should not fly away on his rosy pinions,
and leave her
to grapple in the conflict
with unknown admirers.

No frowning age shall control
The constant current of my soul,
Nor a tear from pity's eye
Shall check my sympathetic sigh.


with this resolution fixed in her mind,
one dark and dreary night,
when the winds whistled and the tempest roared,
she received intelligence that Elfonzo was then waiting,
and every preparation was then ready,
at the residence of Dr. Tully,
and
for her
to make a quick escape while the family was reposing.

Accordingly she gathered her books,
went the wardrobe supplied
with a variety of ornamental dressing,
and ventured alone in the streets
to make her way
to Elfonzo,
who was near at hand,
impatiently looking and watching her arrival.

"What forms," said she,
"are those rising before me?

What is that dark spot on the clouds?

I do wonder what frightful ghost that is,
gleaming on the red tempest?

Oh,
be merciful and tell me what region you are from.

Oh,
tell me,
ye strong spirits,
or ye dark and fleeting clouds,
that I yet have a friend. "

"A friend," said a low,
whispering voice.

"I am thy unchanging,
thy aged,
and thy disappointed mother.

Why brandish in that hand of thine a javelin of pointed steel?

Why suffer that lip I have kissed a thousand times
to equivocate?

My daughter,
let these tears sink deep in
to thy soul,
and no longer persist in that which may be your destruction and ruin.

Come,
my dear child,
retract your steps,
and bear me company
to your welcome home. "

Without one retorting word,
or frown from her brow,
she yielded
to the entreaties of her mother,
and
with all the mildness of her former character she went along
with the silver lamp of age,

to the home of candor and benevolence.

Her father received her cold and formal politeness--"Where has Ambulinia been,
this blustering evening,
Mrs. Valeer?"

inquired he.

"Oh,
she and I have been taking a solitary walk," said the mother;
"all things,
I presume,
are now working
for the best. "


Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened.

"What," said he,
"has heaven and earth turned against me?

I have been disappointed times without number.

Shall I despair?--must I give it over?

Heaven's decrees will not fade;
I will write again--I will try again;
and if it traverses a gory field,
I pray forgiveness at the altar of justice. "


Desolate Hill,
Cumming,
Geo. ,
1844. Unconquered and Beloved Ambulinia--
I have only time
to say
to you,
not
to despair;
thy fame shall not perish;
my visions are brightening before me.

The whirlwind's rage is past,
and we now shall subdue our enemies without doubt.

On Monday morning,
when your friends are at breakfast,
they will not suspect your departure,
or even mistrust me being in town,
as it has been reported advantageously that I have left
for the west.

You walk carelessly toward the academy grove,
where you will find me
with a lightning steed,
elegantly equipped
to bear you off where we shall be joined in wedlock
with the first connubial rights.

Fail not
to do this--think not of the tedious relations of our wrongs-- be invincible.

You alone occupy all my ambition,
and I alone will make you my happy spouse,

with the same unimpeached veracity.

I remain,
forever,
your devoted friend and admirer,
J.

L.

Elfonzo.


The appointed day ushered in undisturbed by any clouds;
nothing disturbed Ambulinia's soft beauty.


with serenity and loveliness she obeys the request of Elfonzo.

The moment the family seated themselves at the table--"Excuse my absence
for a short time," said she,
"while I attend
to the placing of those flowers,
which should have been done a week ago. "

And away she ran
to the sacred grove,
surrounded
with glittering pearls,
that indicated her coming.

Elfonzo hails her
with his silver bow and his golden harp.

They meet-- Ambulinia's countenance brightens--Elfonzo leads up his winged steed.

"Mount," said he,
"ye true-hearted,
ye fearless soul--the day is ours. "

She sprang upon the back of the young thunder bolt,
a brilliant star sparkles upon her head,

with one hand she grasps the reins,
and
with the other she holds an olive branch.

"Lend thy aid,
ye strong winds," they exclaimed,
"ye moon,
ye sun,
and all ye fair host of heaven,
witness the enemy conquered. "

"Hold," said Elfonzo,
"thy dashing steed. "

"Ride on," said Ambulinia,
"the voice of thunder is behind us. "

And onward they went,

with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat,
where they dismounted,
and were united
with all the solemnities that usually attend such divine operations.

They passed the day in thanksgiving and great rejoicing,
and on that evening they visited their uncle,
where many of their friends and acquaintances had gathered
to congratulate them in the field of untainted bliss.

The kind old gentleman met them in the yard:

"Well," said he,
"I wish I may die,
Elfonzo,
if you and Ambulinia haven't tied a knot
with your tongue that you can't untie
with your teeth.

But come in,
come in,
never mind,
all is right--the world still moves on,
and no one has fallen in this great battle. "


Happy now is there lot!

Unmoved by misfortune,
they live among the fair beauties of the South.

Heaven spreads their peace and fame upon the arch of the rainbow,
and smiles propitiously at their triumph,
THROUGH THE TEARS OF THE STORM.

***
THE CALIFORNIAN'S TALE
Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus,
tramping all day long
with pick and pan and horn,
and washing a hatful of dirt here and there,
always expecting
to make a rich strike,
and never doing it.

It was a lovely reason,
woodsy,
balmy,
delicious,
and had once been populous,
long years before,
but now the people had vanished and the charming paradise was a solitude.

They went away when the surface diggings gave out.

In one place,
where a busy little city
with banks and newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and aldermen had been,
was nothing but a wide expanse of emerald turf,

with not even the faintest sign that human life had ever been present there.

This was down toward Tuttletown.

In the country neighborhood thereabouts,
along the dusty roads,
one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes,
snug and cozy,
and so cobwebbed
with vines snowed thick
with roses that the doors and windows were wholly hidden from sight--sign that these were deserted homes,
forsaken years ago by defeated and disappointed families who could neither sell them nor give them away.

Now and then,
half an hour apart,
one came across solitary log cabins of the earliest mining days,
built by the first gold-miners,
the predecessors of the cottage-builders.

In some few cases these cabins were still occupied;
and when this was so,
you could depend upon it that the occupant was the very pioneer who had built the cabin;
and you could depend on another thing,
too--that he was there because he had once had his opportunity
to go home
to the States rich,
and had not done it;
had rather lost his wealth,
and had then in his humiliation resolved
to sever all communication
with his home relatives and friends,
and be
to them thenceforth as one dead.

Round about California in that day were scattered a host of these living dead men-- pride-smitten poor fellows,
grizzled and old at forty,
whose secret thoughts were made all of regrets and longings--regrets
for their wasted lives,
and longings
to be out of the struggle and done
with it all. It was a lonesome land!

Not a sound in all those peaceful expanses of grass and woods but the drowsy hum of insects;
no glimpse of man or beast;
nothing
to keep up your spirits and make you glad
to be alive.

And so,
at last,
in the early part of the afternoon,
when I caught sight of a human creature,
I felt a most grateful uplift.

This person was a man about forty-five years old,
and he was standing at the gate of one of those cozy little rose-clad cottages of the sort already referred to.

However,
this one hadn't a deserted look;
it had the look of being lived in and petted and cared
for and looked after;
and so had its front yard,
which was a garden of flowers,
abundant,
gay,
and flourishing.

I was invited in,
of course,
and required
to make myself at home-- it was the custom of the country. . It was delightful
to be in such a place,
after long weeks of daily and nightly familiarity
with miners' cabins--
with all which this implies of dirt floor,
never-made beds,
tin plates and cups,
bacon and beans and black coffee,
and nothing of ornament but war pictures from the Eastern illustrated papers tacked
to the log walls.

That was all hard,
cheerless,
materialistic desolation,
but here was a nest which had aspects
to rest the tired eye and refresh that something in one's nature which,
after long fasting,
recognizes,
when confronted by the belongings of art,
howsoever cheap and modest they may be,
that it has unconsciously been famishing and now has found nourishment.

I could not have believed that a rag carpet could feast me so,
and so content me;
or that there could be such solace
to the soul in wall-paper and framed lithographs,
and bright-colored tidies and lamp-mats,
and Windsor chairs,
and varnished what-nots,

with sea-shells and books and china vases on them,
and the score of little unclassifiable tricks and touches that a woman's hand distributes about a home,
which one sees without knowing he sees them,
yet would miss in a moment if they were taken away.

The delight that was in my heart showed in my face,
and the man saw it and was pleased;
saw it so plainly that he answered it as if it had been spoken. "

All her work," he said,
caressingly;
"she did it all herself-- every bit," and he took the room in
with a glance which was full of affectionate worship.

One of those soft Japanese fabrics
with which women drape
with careful negligence the upper part of a picture-frame was out of adjustment.

He noticed it,
and rearranged it
with cautious pains,
stepping back several times
to gauge the effect before he got it
to suit him.

Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two
with his hand,
and said:

"She always does that.

You can't tell just what it lacks,
but it does lack something until you've done that--you can see it yourself after it's done,
but that is all you know;
you can't find out the law of it.

It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the child's hair after she's got it combed and brushed,
I reckon.

I've seen her fix all these things so much that I can do them all just her way,
though I don't know the law of any of them.

But she knows the law.

She knows the why and the how both;
but I don't know the why;
I only know the how. "


He took me in
to a bedroom so that I might wash my hands;
such a bedroom as I had not seen
for years:

white counterpane,
white pillows,
carpeted floor,
papered walls,
pictures,
dressing-table,

with mirror and pin-cushion and dainty toilet things;
and in the corner a wash-stand,

with real china-ware bowl and pitcher,
and
with soap in a china dish,
and on a rack more than a dozen towels--towels too clean and white
for one out of practice
to use without some vague sense of profanation.

So my face spoke again,
and he answered
with gratified words:
"All her work;
she did it all herself--every bit.

Nothing here that hasn't felt the touch of her hand.

Now you would think-- But I mustn't talk so much. "


By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail
to detail of the room's belongings,
as one is apt
to do when he is in a new place,
where everything he sees is a comfort
to his eye and his spirit;
and I became conscious,
in one of those unaccountable ways,
you know,
that there was something there somewhere that the man wanted me
to discover
for myself.

I knew it perfectly,
and I knew he was trying
to help me by furtive indications
with his eye,
so I tried hard
to get on the right track,
being eager
to gratify him.

I failed several times,
as I could see out of the corner of my eye without being told;
but at last I knew I must be looking straight at the thing--knew it from the pleasure issuing in invisible waves from him.

He broke in
to a happy laugh,
and rubbed his hands together,
and cried out:
"That's it!

You've found it.

I knew you would.

It's her picture. "


I went
to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther wall,
and did find there what I had not yet noticed--a daguerreotype-case.

It contained the sweetest girlish face,
and the most beautiful,
as it seemed
to me,
that I had ever seen.

The man drank the admiration from my face,
and was fully satisfied. "

Nineteen her last birthday," he said,
as he put the picture back;
"and that was the day we were married.

When you see her--ah,
just wait till you see her!"
"Where is she?

When will she be in?"


"Oh,
she's away now.

She's gone
to see her people.

They live forty or fifty miles from here.

She's been gone two weeks today. "


"When do you expect her back?"


"This is Wednesday.

She'll be back Saturday,
in the evening-- about nine o'clock,
likely. "


I felt a sharp sense of disappointment. "

I'm sorry,
because I'll be gone then," I said,
regretfully. "

Gone?

No--why should you go?

Don't go.

She'll be disappointed. "


She would be disappointed--that beautiful creature!

If she had said the words herself they could hardly have blessed me more.

I was feeling a deep,
strong longing
to see her--a longing so supplicating,
so insistent,
that it made me afraid.

I said
to myself:

"I will go straight away from this place,

for my peace of mind's sake. "


"You see,
she likes
to have people come and stop
with us-- people who know things,
and can talk--people like you.

She delights in it;

for she knows--oh,
she knows nearly everything herself,
and can talk,
oh,
like a bird--and the books she reads,
why,
you would be astonished.

Don't go;
it's only a little while,
you know,
and she'll be so disappointed. "


I heard the words,
but hardly noticed them,
I was so deep in my thinkings and strugglings.

He left me,
but I didn't know.

Presently he was back,

with the picture case in his hand,
and he held it open before me and said:
"There,
now,
tell her
to her face you could have stayed
to see her,
and you wouldn't. "


That second glimpse broke down my good resolution.

I would stay and take the risk.

That night we smoked the tranquil pipe,
and talked till late about various things,
but mainly about her;
and certainly I had had no such pleasant and restful time
for many a day.

The Thursday followed and slipped comfortably away.

Toward twilight a big miner from three miles away came--one of the grizzled,
stranded pioneers--and gave us warm salutation,
clothed in grave and sober speech.

Then he said:
"I only just dropped over
to ask about the little madam,
and when is she coming home.

Any news from her?"


"Oh,
yes,
a letter.

Would you like
to hear it,
Tom?"


"Well,
I should think I would,
if you don't mind,
Henry!"
Henry got the letter out of his wallet,
and said he would skip some of the private phrases,
if we were willing;
then he went on and read the bulk of it--a loving,
sedate,
and altogether charming and gracious piece of handiwork,

with a postscript full of affectionate regards and messages
to Tom,
and Joe,
and Charley,
and other close friends and neighbors. As the reader finished,
he glanced at Tom,
and cried out:
"Oho,
you're at it again!

Take your hands away,
and let me see your eyes.

You always do that when I read a letter from her.

I will write and tell her. "


"Oh no,
you mustn't,
Henry.

I'm getting old,
you know,
and any little disappointment makes me want
to cry.

I thought she'd be here herself,
and now you've got only a letter. "


"Well,
now,
what put that in your head?

I thought everybody knew she wasn't coming till Saturday. "


"Saturday!

Why,
come
to think,
I did know it.

I wonder what's the matter
with me lately?

Certainly I knew it.

Ain't we all getting ready
for her?

Well,
I must be going now.

But I'll be on hand when she comes,
old man!"
Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped over from his cabin a mile or so away,
and said the boys wanted
to have a little gaiety and a good time Saturday night,
if Henry thought she wouldn't be too tired after her journey
to be kept up. "

Tired?

She tired!

Oh,
hear the man!

Joe,
YOU know she'd sit up six weeks
to please any one of you!"
When Joe heard that there was a letter,
he asked
to have it read,
and the loving messages in it
for him broke the old fellow all up;
but he said he was such an old wreck that THAT would happen
to him if she only just mentioned his name.

"Lord,
we miss her so!" he said. Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch pretty often.

Henry noticed it,
and said,

with a startled look:
"You don't think she ought
to be here soon,
do you?"


I felt caught,
and a little embarrassed;
but I laughed,
and said it was a habit of mine when I was in a state of expenctancy.

But he didn't seem quite satisfied;
and from that time on he began
to show uneasiness.

Four times he walked me up the road
to a point whence we could see a long distance;
and there he would stand,
shading his eyes
with his hand,
and looking.

Several times he said:
"I'm getting worried,
I'm getting right down worried.

I know she's not due till about nine o'clock,
and yet something seems
to be trying
to warn me that something's happened.

You don't think anything has happened,
do you?"


I began
to get pretty thoroughly ashamed of him
for his childishness;
and at last,
when he repeated that imploring question still another time,
I lost my patience
for the moment,
and spoke pretty brutally
to him.

It seemed
to shrivel him up and cow him;
and he looked so wounded and so humble after that,
that I detested myself
for having done the cruel and unnecessary thing.

And so I was glad when Charley,
another veteran,
arrived toward the edge of the evening,
and nestled up
to Henry
to hear the letter read,
and talked over the preparations
for the welcome.

Charley fetched out one hearty speech after another,
and did his best
to drive away his friend's bodings and apprehensions. "

Anything HAPPENED
to her?

Henry,
that's pure nonsense.

There isn't anything going
to happen
to her;
just make your mind easy as
to that.

What did the letter say?

Said she was well,
didn't it?

And said she'd be here by nine o'clock,
didn't it?

Did you ever know her
to fail of her word?

Why,
you know you never did.

Well,
then,
don't you fret;
she'll BE here,
and that's absolutely certain,
and as sure as you are born.

Come,
now,
let's get
to decorating-- not much time left. "


Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived,
and then all hands set about adoring the house
with flowers.

Toward nine the three miners said that as they had brought their instruments they might as well tune up,

for the boys and girls would soon be arriving now,
and hungry
for a good,
old-fashioned break-down.

A fiddle,
a banjo,
and a clarinet-- these were the instruments.

The trio took their places side by side,
and began
to play some rattling dance-music,
and beat time
with their big boots. It was getting very close
to nine.

Henry was standing in the door
with his eyes directed up the road,
his body swaying
to the torture of his mental distress.

He had been made
to drink his wife's health and safety several times,
and now Tom shouted:
"All hands stand by!

One more drink,
and she's here!"
Joe brought the glasses on a waiter,
and served the party.

I reached
for one of the two remaining glasses,
but Joe growled under his breath:
"Drop that!

Take the other. "


Which I did.

Henry was served last.

He had hardly swallowed his drink when the clock began
to strike.

He listened till it finished,
his face growing pale and paler;
then he said:
"Boys,
I'm sick
with fear.

Help me--I want
to lie down!"
They helped him
to the sofa.

He began
to nestle and drowse,
but presently spoke like one talking in his sleep,
and said:

"Did I hear horses' feet?

Have they come?"


One of the veterans answered,
close
to his ear:

"It was Jimmy Parish come
to say the party got delayed,
but they're right up the road a piece,
and coming along.

Her horse is lame,
but she'll be here in half an hour. "


"Oh,
I'm SO thankful nothing has happened!"
He was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth.

In a moment those handy men had his clothes off,
and had tucked him in
to his bed in the chamber where I had washed my hands.

They closed the door and came back.

Then they seemed preparing
to leave;
but I said:

"Please don't go,
gentlemen.

She won't know me;
I am a stranger. "


They glanced at each other.

Then Joe said:
"She?

Poor thing,
she's been dead nineteen years!"
"Dead?"


"That or worse.

She went
to see her folks half a year after she was married,
and on her way back,
on a Saturday evening,
the Indians captured her within five miles of this place,
and she's never been heard of since. "


"And he lost his mind in consequence?"


"Never has been sane an hour since.

But he only gets bad when that time of year comes round.

Then we begin
to drop in here,
three days before she's due,

to encourage him up,
and ask if he's heard from her,
and Saturday we all come and fix up the house
with flowers,
and get everything ready
for a dance.

We've done it every year
for nineteen years.

The first Saturday there was twenty-seven of us,
without counting the girls;
there's only three of us now,
and the girls are gone.

We drug him
to sleep,
or he would go wild;
then he's all right
for another year--thinks she's
with him till the last three or four days come round;
then he begins
to look
for her,
and gets out his poor old letter,
and we come and ask him
to read it
to us.

Lord,
she was a darling!"
***
A HELPLESS SITUATION
Once or twice a year I get a letter of a certain pattern,
a pattern that never materially changes,
in form and substance,
yet I cannot get used
to that letter--it always astonishes me.

It affects me as the locomotive always affects me:

I saw
to myself,
"I have seen you a thousand times,
you always look the same way,
yet you are always a wonder,
and you are always impossible;

to contrive you is clearly beyond human genius--you can't exist,
you don't exist,
yet here you are!"
I have a letter of that kind by me,
a very old one.

I yearn
to print it,
and where is the harm?

The writer of it is dead years ago,
no doubt,
and if I conceal her name and address--her this-world address-- I am sure her shade will not mind.

And
with it I wish
to print the answer which I wrote at the time but probably did not send.

If it went--which is not likely--it went in the form of a copy,

for I find the original still here,
pigeonholed
with the said letter.


to that kind of letters we all write answers which we do not send,
fearing
to hurt where we have no desire
to hurt;
I have done it many a time,
and this is doubtless a case of the sort.

THE LETTER
X------,
California,
JUNE 3,
1879. Mr. S.

L.

Clemens,
HARTFORD,
CONN. :
Dear Sir,--You will doubtless be surprised
to know who has presumed
to write and ask a favor of you.

let your memory go back
to your days in the Humboldt mines--'62-'63.

You will remember,
you and Clagett and Oliver and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-
to which was half-way up the gulch,
and there were six log cabins in the camp-- strung pretty well separated up the gulch from its mouth at the desert
to where the last claim was,
at the divide.

The lean-
to you lived in was the one
with a canvas roof that the cow fell down through one night,
as told about by you in ROUGHING IT--my uncle Simmons remembers it very well.

He lived in the principal cabin,
half-way up the divide,
along
with Dixon and Parker and Smith.

It had two rooms,
one
for kitchen and the other
for bunks,
and was the only one that had.

You and your party were there on the great night,
the time they had dried-apple-pie,
Uncle Simmons often speaks of it.

It seems curious that dried-apple-pie should have seemed such a great thing,
but it was,
and it shows how far Humboldt was out of the world and difficult
to get to,
and how slim the regular bill of fare was.

Sixteen years ago--it is a long time.

I was a little girl then,
only fourteen.

I never saw you,
I lived in Washoe.

But Uncle Simmons ran across you every now and then,
all during those weeks that you and party were there working your claim which was like the rest.

The camp played out long and long ago,
there wasn't silver enough in it
to make a button.

You never saw my husband,
but he was there after you left,
AND LIVED IN THAT VERY LEAN-TO,
a bachelor then but married
to me now.

He often wishes there had been a photographer there in those days,
he would have taken the lean-to.

He got hurt in the old Hal Clayton claim that was abandoned like the others,
putting in a blast and not climbing out quick enough,
though he scrambled the best he could.

It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute.


for weeks they thought he would not get over it but he did,
and is all right,
now.

Has been ever since.

This is a long introduction but it is the only way I can make myself known.

The favor I ask I feel assured your generous heart will grant:

Give me some advice about a book I have written.

I do not claim anything
for it only it is mostly true and as interesting as most of the books of the times.

I am unknown in the literary world and you know what that means unless one has some one of influence (like yourself)
to help you by speaking a good word
for you.

I would like
to place the book on royalty basis plan
with any one you would suggest. This is a secret from my husband and family.

I intend it as a surprise in case I get it published. Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write me a letter
to some publisher,
or,
better still,
if you could see them
for me and then let me hear. I appeal
to you
to grant me this favor.


with deepest gratitude I think you
for your attention.

One knows,
without inquiring,
that the twin of that embarrassing letter is forever and ever flying in this and that and the other direction across the continent in the mails,
daily,
nightly,
hourly,
unceasingly,
unrestingly.

It goes
to every well-known merchant,
and railway official,
and manufacturer,
and capitalist,
and Mayor,
and Congressman,
and Governor,
and editor,
and publisher,
and author,
and broker,
and banker--in a word,

to every person who is supposed
to have "influence. "

It always follows the one pattern:

"You do not know me,
BUT YOU ONCE KNEW A RELATIVE OF MINE," etc. ,
etc.

We should all like
to help the applicants,
we should all be glad
to do it,
we should all like
to return the sort of answer that is desired,
but--Well,
there is not a thing we can do that would be a help,

for not in any instance does that latter ever come from anyone who CAN be helped.

The struggler whom you COULD help does his own helping;
it would not occur
to him
to apply
to you,
stranger.

He has talent and knows it,
and he goes in
to his fight eagerly and
with energy and determination--all alone,
preferring
to be alone.

That pathetic letter which comes
to you from the incapable,
the unhelpable--how do you who are familiar
with it answer it?

What do you find
to say?

You do not want
to inflict a wound;
you hunt ways
to avoid that.

What do you find?

How do you get out of your hard place
with a contend conscience?

Do you try
to explain?

The old reply of mine
to such a letter shows that I tried that once.

Was I satisfied
with the result?

Possibly;
and possibly not;
probably not;
almost certainly not.

I have long ago forgotten all about it.

But,
anyway,
I append my effort:
THE REPLY
I know Mr. H. ,
and I will go
to him,
dear madam,
if upon reflection you find you still desire it.

There will be a conversation.

I know the form it will take.

It will be like this:
MR. H.

How do her books strike you?
MR. CLEMENS.

I am not acquainted
with them. H.

Who has been her publisher?
C.

I don't know. H.

She HAS one,
I suppose?
C.

I--I think not. H.

Ah.

You think this is her first book?
C.

Yes--I suppose so.

I think so. H.

What is it about?

What is the character of it?
C.

I believe I do not know. H.

Have you seen it?
C.

Well--no,
I haven't. H.

Ah-h.

How long have you known her?
C.

I don't know her. H.

Don't know her?
C.

No. H.

Ah-h.

How did you come
to be interested in her book,
then?
C.

Well,
she--she wrote and asked me
to find a publisher
for her,
and mentioned you. H.

Why should she apply
to you instead of me?
C.

She wished me
to use my influence. H.

Dear me,
what has INFLUENCE
to do
with such a matter?
C.

Well,
I think she thought you would be more likely
to examine her book if you were influenced. H.

Why,
what we are here
FOR is
to examine books--anybody's book that comes along.

It's our BUSINESS.

Why should we turn away a book unexamined because it's a stranger's?

It would be foolish.

No publisher does it.

On what ground did she request your influence,
since you do not know her?

She must have thought you knew her literature and could speak
for it.

Is that it?
C.

No;
she knew I didn't. H.

Well,
what then?

She had a reason of SOME sort
for believing you competent
to recommend her literature,
and also under obligations
to do it?
C.

Yes,
I--I knew her uncle. H.

Knew her UNCLE?
C.

Yes. H.

Upon my word!

So,
you knew her uncle;
her uncle knows her literature;
he endorses it
to you;
the chain is complete,
nothing further needed;
you are satisfied,
and therefore--
C.

NO,
that isn't all,
there are other ties.

I know the cabin her uncle lived in,
in the mines;
I knew his partners,
too;
also I came near knowing her husband before she married him,
and I DID know the abandoned shaft where a premature blast went off and he went flying through the air and clear down
to the trail and hit an Indian in the back
with almost fatal consequences. H.


to HIM,
or
to the Indian?
C.

She didn't say which it was. H.

(
WITH A SIGH).

It certainly beats the band!

You don't know HER,
you don't know her literature,
you don't know who got hurt when the blast went off,
you don't know a single thing
for us
to build an estimate of her book upon,
so far as I--
C.

I knew her uncle.

You are forgetting her uncle. H.

Oh,
what use is HE?

Did you know him long?

How long was it?
C.

Well,
I don't know that I really knew him,
but I must have met him,
anyway.

I think it was that way;
you can't tell about these things,
you know,
except when they are recent. H.

Recent?

When was all this?
C.

Sixteen years ago. H.

What a basis
to judge a book upon!

As first you said you knew him,
and not you don't know whether you did or not. C.

Oh yes,
I know him;
anyway,
I think I thought I did;
I'm perfectly certain of it. H.

What makes you think you thought you knew him?
C.

Why,
she says I did,
herself. H.

SHE says so!
C.

Yes,
she does,
and I DID know him,
too,
though I don't remember it now. H.

Come--how can you know it when you don't remember it. C.

_I_ don't know.

That is,
I don't know the process,
but I DO know lots of things that I don't remember,
and remember lots of things that I don't know.

It's so
with every educated person. H.

(AFTER A PAUSE).

Is your time valuable?
C.

No--well,
not very. H.

Mine is. So I came away then,
because he was looking tired.

Overwork,
I reckon;
I never do that;
I have seen the evil effects of it.

My mother was always afraid I work overwork myself,
but I never did. Dear madam,
you see how it would happen if I went there.

He would ask me those questions,
and I would try
to answer them
to suit him,
and he would hunt me here and there and yonder and get me embarrassed more and more all the time,
and at last he would look tired on account of overwork,
and there it would end and nothing done.

I wish I could be useful
to you,
but,
you see,
they do not care
for uncles or any of those things;
it doesn't move them,
it doesn't have the least effect,
they don't care
for anything but the literature itself,
and they as good as despise influence.

But they do care
for books,
and are eager
to get them and examine them,
no matter whence they come,
nor from whose pen.

If you will send yours
to a publisher--any publisher--he will certainly examine it,
I can assure you of that.

***
A TELEPHONIC CONVERSATION
Consider that a conversation by telephone--when you are simply siting by and not taking any part in that conversation--is one of the solemnest curiosities of modern life.

Yesterday I was writing a deep article on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was going on in the room.

I notice that one can always write best when somebody is talking through a telephone close by.

Well,
the thing began in this way.

A member of our household came in and asked me
to have our house put in
to communication
with Mr. Bagley's downtown.

I have observed,
in many cities,
that the sex always shrink from calling up the central office themselves.

I don't know why,
but they do.

So I touched the bell,
and this talk ensued:
CENTRAL OFFICE.

(GRUFFY. ) Hello!
I.

Is it the Central Office?
C.

O.

Of course it is.

What do you want?
I.

Will you switch me on
to the Bagleys,
please?
C.

O.

All right.

Just keep your ear
to the telephone. Then I heard K-LOOK,
K-LOOK,
K'LOOK--KLOOK-KLOOK-KLOOK-LOOK-LOOK!

then a horrible "gritting" of teeth,
and finally a piping female voice:

Y-e-s?

(RISING INFLECTION. ) Did you wish
to speak
to me?
Without answering,
I handed the telephone
to the applicant,
and sat down.

Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world-- a conversation
with only one end of it.

You hear questions asked;
you don't hear the answer.

You hear invitations given;
you hear no thanks in return.

You have listening pauses of dead silence,
followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise or sorrow or dismay.

You can't make head or tail of the talk,
because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says.

Well,
I heard the following remarkable series of observations,
all from the one tongue,
and all shouted--
for you can't ever persuade the sex
to speak gently in
to a telephone:
Yes?

Why,
how did THAT happen?
Pause. What did you say?
Pause. Oh no,
I don't think it was. Pause. NO!

Oh no,
I didn't mean THAT.

I meant,
put it in while it is still boiling--or just before it COMES
to a boil. Pause. WHAT?
Pause. I turned it over
with a backstitch on the selvage edge. Pause. Yes,
I like that way,
too;
but I think it's better
to baste it on
with Valenciennes or bombazine,
or something of that sort.

It gives it such an air--and attracts so much noise. Pause. It's forty-ninth Deuteronomy,
sixty-forth
to ninety-seventh inclusive.

I think we ought all
to read it often. Pause. Perhaps so;
I generally use a hair pin. Pause. What did you say?

(ASIDE. ) Children,
do be quiet!
Pause
OH!

B FLAT!

Dear me,
I thought you said it was the cat!
Pause. Since WHEN?
Pause. Why,
_I_ never heard of it. Pause. You astound me!

It seems utterly impossible!
Pause. WHO did?
Pause. Good-ness gracious!
Pause. Well,
what IS this world coming to?

Was it right in CHURCH?
Pause. And was her MOTHER there?
Pause. Why,
Mrs. Bagley,
I should have died of humiliation!

What did they DO?
Long pause. I can't be perfectly sure,
because I haven't the notes by me;
but I think it goes something like this:

te-rolly-loll-loll,
loll lolly-loll-loll,
O tolly-loll-loll-LEE-LY-LI-I-do!

And then REPEAT,
you know. Pause. Yes,
I think it IS very sweet--and very solemn and impressive,
if you get the andantino and the pianissimo right. Pause. Oh,
gum-drops,
gum-drops!

But I never allow them
to eat striped candy.

And of course they CAN'T,
till they get their teeth,
anyway. Pause. WHAT?
Pause. Oh,
not in the least--go right on.

He's here writing--it doesn't bother HIM. Pause. Very well,
I'll come if I can.

(ASIDE. ) Dear me,
how it does tire a person's arm
to hold this thing up so long!

I wish she'd--
Pause. Oh no,
not at all;
I LIKE
to talk--but I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your affairs. Pause. Visitors?
Pause. No,
we never use butter on them. Pause. Yes,
that is a very good way;
but all the cook-books say they are very unhealthy when they are out of season.

And HE doesn't like them,
anyway--especially canned. Pause. Oh,
I think that is too high
for them;
we have never paid over fifty cents a bunch. Pause. MUST you go?

Well,
GOOD-by. Pause. Yes,
I think so.

GOOD-by. Pause. Four o'clock,
then--I'll be ready.

GOOD-by. Pause. Thank you ever so much.

GOOD-by. Pause. Oh,
not at all!--just as fresh--WHICH?

Oh,
I'm glad
to hear you say that.

GOOD-by. (Hangs up the telephone and says,
"Oh,
it DOES tire a person's arm so!")
A man delivers a single brutal "Good-by," and that is the end of it.

Not so
with the gentle sex--I say it in their praise;
they cannot abide abruptness.


***
EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON:

A TALE
These two were distantly related
to each other--seventh cousins,
or something of that sort.

While still babies they became orphans,
and were adopted by the Brants,
a childless couple,
who quickly grew very fond of them.

The Brants were always saying:

"Be pure,
honest,
sober,
industrious,
and considerate of others,
and success in life is assured. "

The children heard this repeated some thousands of times before they understood it;
they could repeat it themselves long before they could say the Lord's Prayer;
it was painted over the nursery door,
and was about the first thing they learned
to read.

It was destined
to be the unswerving rule of Edward Mills's life.

Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a little,
and said:

"Be pure,
honest,
sober,
industrious,
considerate,
and you will never lack friends. "


Baby Mills was a comfort
to everybody about him.

When he wanted candy and could not have it,
he listened
to reason,
and contented himself without it.

When Baby Benton wanted candy,
he cried
for it until he got it.

Baby Mills took care of his toys;
Baby Benton always destroyed his in a very brief time,
and then made himself
to insistently disagreeable that,
in order
to have peace in the house,
little Edward was persuaded
to yield up his play-things
to him. When the children were a little older,
Georgie became a heavy expense in one respect:

he took no care of his clothes;
consequently,
he shone frequently in new ones,

with was not the case
with Eddie.

The boys grew apace.

Eddie was an increasing comfort,
Georgie an increasing solicitude.

It was always sufficient
to say,
in answer
to Eddie's petitions,
"I would rather you would not do it"-- meaning swimming,
skating,
picnicking,
berrying,
circusing,
and all sorts of things which boys delight in.

But NO answer was sufficient
for Georgie;
he had
to be humored in his desires,
or he would carry them
with a high hand.

Naturally,
no boy got more swimming skating,
berrying,
and so forth than he;
no body ever had a better time.

The good Brants did not allow the boys
to play out after nine in summer evenings;
they were sent
to bed at that hour;
Eddie honorably remained,
but Georgie usually slipped out of the window toward ten,
and enjoyed himself until midnight.

It seemed impossible
to break Georgie of this bad habit,
but the Brants managed it at last by hiring him,

with apples and marbles,

to stay in.

The good Brants gave all their time and attention
to vain endeavors
to regulate Georgie;
they said,

with grateful tears in their eyes,
that Eddie needed no efforts of theirs,
he was so good,
so considerate,
and in all ways so perfect. By and by the boys were big enough
to work,
so they were apprenticed
to a trade:

Edward went voluntarily;
George was coaxed and bribed.

Edward worked hard and faithfully,
and ceased
to be an expense
to the good Brants;
they praised him,
so did his master;
but George ran away,
and it cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble
to hunt him up and get him back.

By and by he ran away again--more money and more trouble.

He ran away a third time--and stole a few things
to carry
with him.

Trouble and expense
for Mr. Brant once more;
and,
besides,
it was
with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in persuading the master
to let the youth go unprosecuted
for the theft. Edward worked steadily along,
and in time became a full partner in his master's business.

George did not improve;
he kept the loving hearts of his aged benefactors full of trouble,
and their hands full of inventive activities
to protect him from ruin.

Edward,
as a boy,
had interested himself in Sunday-schools,
debating societies,
penny missionary affairs,
anti-tobacco organizations,
anti-profanity associations,
and all such things;
as a man,
he was a quiet but steady and reliable helper in the church,
the temperance societies,
and in all movements looking
to the aiding and uplifting of men.

This excited no remark,
attracted no attention--
for it was his "natural bent. "


Finally,
the old people died.

The will testified their loving pride in Edward,
and left their little property
to George-- because he "needed it";
whereas,
"owing
to a bountiful Providence," such was not the case
with Edward.

The property was left
to George conditionally:

he must buy out Edward's partner
with it;
else it must go
to a benevolent organization called the Prisoner's Friend Society.

The old people left a letter,
in which they begged their dear son Edward
to take their place and watch over George,
and help and shield him as they had done. Edward dutifully acquiesced,
and George became his partner in the business.

He was not a valuable partner:

he had been meddling
with drink before;
he soon developed in
to a constant tippler now,
and his flesh and eyes showed the fact unpleasantly.

Edward had been courting a sweet and kindly spirited girl
for some time.

They loved each other dearly,
and--But about this period George began
to haunt her tearfully and imploringly,
and at last she went crying
to Edward,
and said her high and holy duty was plain before her-- she must not let her own selfish desires interfere
with it:

she must marry "poor George" and "reform him. "

It would break her heart,
she knew it would,
and so on;
but duty was duty.

So she married George,
and Edward's heart came very near breaking,
as well as her own.

However,
Edward recovered,
and married another girl-- a very excellent one she was,
too. Children came
to both families.

Mary did her honest best
to reform her husband,
but the contract was too large.

George went on drinking,
and by and by he fell
to misusing her and the little ones sadly.

A great many good people strove
with George--they were always at it,
in fact--but he calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty,
and did not mend his ways.

He added a vice,
presently--that of secret gambling.

He got deeply in debt;
he borrowed money on the firm's credit,
as quietly as he could,
and carried this system so far and so successfully that one morning the sheriff took possession of the establishment,
and the two cousins found themselves penniless. Times were hard,
now,
and they grew worse.

Edward moved his family in
to a garret,
and walked the streets day and night,
seeking work.

He begged
for it,
but in was really not
to be had.

He was astonished
to see how soon his face became unwelcome;
he was astonished and hurt
to see how quickly the ancient interest which people had had in him faded out and disappeared.

Still,
he MUST get work;
so he swallowed his chagrin,
and toiled on in search of it.

At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod,
and was a grateful man in consequence;
but after that NOBODY knew him or cared anything about him.

He was not able
to keep up his dues in the various moral organizations
to which he belonged,
and had
to endure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under the disgrace of suspension. But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest,
the faster George rose in them.

He was found lying,
ragged and drunk,
in the gutter one morning.

A member of the Ladies' Temperance Refuge fished him out,
took him in hand,
got up a subscription
for him,
kept him sober a whole week,
then got a situation
for him.

An account of it was published. General attention was thus drawn
to the poor fellow,
and a great many people came forward and helped him toward reform
with their countenance and encouragement.

He did not drink a drop
for two months,
and meantime was the pet of the good.

Then he fell--in the gutter;
and there was general sorrow and lamentation.

But the noble sisterhood rescued him again.

They cleaned him up,
they fed him,
they listened
to the mournful music of his repentances,
they got him his situation again.

An account of this,
also,
was published,
and the town was drowned in happy tears over the re-restoration of the poor beast and struggling victim of the fatal bowl.

A grand temperance revival was got up,
and after some rousing speeches had been made the chairman said,
impressively:

"We are not about
to call
for signers;
and I think there is a spectacle in store
for you which not many in this house will be able
to view
with dry eyes. "

There was an eloquent pause,
and then George Benton,
escorted by a red-sashed detachment of the Ladies of the Refuge,
stepped forward upon the platform and signed the pledge.

The air was rent
with applause,
and everybody cried
for joy.

Everybody wrung the hand of the new convert when the meeting was over;
his salary was enlarged next day;
he was the talk of the town,
and its hero.

An account of it was published. George Benton fell,
regularly,
every three months,
but was faithfully rescued and wrought with,
every time,
and good situations were found
for him.

Finally,
he was taken around the country lecturing,
as a reformed drunkard,
and he had great houses and did an immense amount of good. He was so popular at home,
and so trusted--during his sober intervals-- that he was enabled
to use the name of a principal citizen,
and get a large sum of money at the bank.

A mighty pressure was brought
to bear
to save him from the consequences of his forgery,
and it was partially successful--he was "sent up"
for only two years.

When,
at the end of a year,
the tireless efforts of the benevolent were crowned
with success,
and he emerged from the penitentiary
with a pardon in his pocket,
the Prisoner's Friend Society met him at the door
with a situation and a comfortable salary,
and all the other benevolent people came forward and gave him advice,
encouragement and help.

Edward Mills had once applied
to the Prisoner's Friend Society
for a situation,
when in dire need,
but the question,
"Have you been a prisoner?"

made brief work of his case. While all these things were going on,
Edward Mills had been quietly making head against adversity.

He was still poor,
but was in receipt of a steady and sufficient salary,
as the respected and trusted cashier of a bank.

George Benton never came near him,
and was never heard
to inquire about him.

George got
to indulging in long absences from the town;
there were ill reports about him,
but nothing definite. One winter's night some masked burglars forced their way in
to the bank,
and found Edward Mills there alone.

They commanded him
to reveal the "combination," so that they could get in
to the safe.

He refused.

They threatened his life.

He said his employers trusted him,
and he could not be traitor
to that trust.

He could die,
if he must,
but while he lived he would be faithful;
he would not yield up the "combination. "

The burglars killed him. The detectives hunted down the criminals;
the chief one proved
to be George Benton.

A wide sympathy was felt
for the widow and orphans of the dead man,
and all the newspapers in the land begged that all the banks in the land would testify their appreciation of the fidelity and heroism of the murdered cashier by coming forward
with a generous contribution of money in aid of his family,
now bereft of support.

The result was a mass of solid cash amounting
to upward of five hundred dollars--an average of nearly three-eights of a cent
for each bank in the Union.

The cashier's own bank testified its gratitude by endeavoring
to show (but humiliatingly failed in it) that the peerless servant's accounts were not square,
and that he himself had knocked his brains out
with a bludgeon
to escape detection and punishment. George Benton was arraigned
for trial.

Then everybody seemed
to forget the widow and orphans in their solicitude
for poor George.

Everything that money and influence could do was done
to save him,
but it all failed;
he was sentenced
to death.

Straightway the Governor was besieged
with petitions
for commutation or pardon;
they were brought by tearful young girls;
by sorrowful old maids;
by deputations of pathetic widows;
by shoals of impressive orphans.

But no,
the Governor--
for once--would not yield. Now George Benton experienced religion.

The glad news flew all around.

From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and fresh flowers;
all the day long there was prayer,
and hymn-singing,
and thanksgiving,
and homilies,
and tears,

with never an interruption,
except an occasional five-minute intermission
for refreshments. This sort of thing continued up
to the very gallows,
and George Benton went proudly home,
in the black cap,
before a wailing audience of the sweetest and best that the region could produce.

His grave had fresh flowers on it every day,

for a while,
and the head-stone bore these words,
under a hand pointing aloft:

"He has fought the good fight. "


The brave cashier's head-stone has this inscription:

"Be pure,
honest,
sober,
industrious,
considerate,
and you will never--"
Nobody knows who gave the order
to leave it that way,
but it was so given. The cashier's family are in stringent circumstances,
now,
it is said;
but no matter;
a lot of appreciative people,
who were not willing that an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded,
have collected forty-two thousand dollars--and built a Memorial Church
with it.

***
THE FIVE BOONS OF LIFE
Chapter I
In the morning of life came a good fairy
with her basket,
and said:
"Here are gifts.

Take one,
leave the others.

And be wary,
chose wisely;
oh,
choose wisely!


for only one of them is valuable. "


The gifts were five:

Fame,
Love,
Riches,
Pleasure,
Death.

The youth said,
eagerly:
"There is no need
to consider";
and he chose Pleasure. He went out in
to the world and sought out the pleasures that youth delights in.

But each in its turn was short-lived and disappointing,
vain and empty;
and each,
departing,
mocked him.

In the end he said:

"These years I have wasted.

If I could but choose again,
I would choose wisely.


Chapter II
The fairy appeared,
and said:
"Four of the gifts remain.

Choose once more;
and oh,
remember-- time is flying,
and only one of them is precious. "


The man considered long,
then chose Love;
and did not mark the tears that rose in the fairy's eyes. After many,
many years the man sat by a coffin,
in an empty home.

And he communed
with himself,
saying:

"One by one they have gone away and left me;
and now she lies here,
the dearest and the last.

Desolation after desolation has swept over me;

for each hour of happiness the treacherous trader,
Love,
as sold me I have paid a thousand hours of grief.

Out of my heart of hearts I curse him. "


Chapter III
"Choose again. "

It was the fairy speaking. "

The years have taught you wisdom--surely it must be so.

Three gifts remain.

Only one of them has any worth--remember it,
and choose warily. "


The man reflected long,
then chose Fame;
and the fairy,
sighing,
went her way. Years went by and she came again,
and stood behind the man where he sat solitary in the fading day,
thinking.

And she knew his thought:
"My name filled the world,
and its praises were on every tongue,
and it seemed well
with me
for a little while.

How little a while it was!

Then came envy;
then detraction;
then calumny;
then hate;
then persecution.

Then derision,
which is the beginning of the end.

And last of all came pity,
which is the funeral of fame.

Oh,
the bitterness and misery of renown!

target
for mud in its prime,

for contempt and compassion in its decay. "


Chapter IV
"Chose yet again. "

It was the fairy's voice. "

Two gifts remain.

And do not despair.

In the beginning there was but one that was precious,
and it is still here. "


"Wealth--which is power!

How blind I was!" said the man.

"Now,
at last,
life will be worth the living.

I will spend,
squander,
dazzle.

These mockers and despisers will crawl in the dirt before me,
and I will feed my hungry heart
with their envy.

I will have all luxuries,
all joys,
all enchantments of the spirit,
all contentments of the body that man holds dear.

I will buy,
buy,
buy!

deference,
respect,
esteem,
worship--every pinchbeck grace of life the market of a trivial world can furnish forth.

I have lost much time,
and chosen badly heretofore,
but let that pass;
I was ignorant then,
and could but take
for best what seemed so. "


Three short years went by,
and a day came when the man sat shivering in a mean garret;
and he was gaunt and wan and hollow-eyed,
and clothed in rags;
and he was gnawing a dry crust and mumbling:
"Curse all the world's gifts,

for mockeries and gilded lies!

And miscalled,
every one.

They are not gifts,
but merely lendings.

Pleasure,
Love,
Fame,
Riches:

they are but temporary disguises
for lasting realities--Pain,
Grief,
Shame,
Poverty.

The fairy said true;
in all her store there was but one gift which was precious,
only one that was not valueless.

How poor and cheap and mean I know those others now
to be,
compared
with that inestimable one,
that dear and sweet and kindly one,
that steeps in dreamless and enduring sleep the pains that persecute the body,
and the shames and griefs that eat the mind and heart.

Bring it!

I am weary,
I would rest. "


Chapter V
The fairy came,
bringing again four of the gifts,
but Death was wanting.

She said:
"I gave it
to a mother's pet,
a little child.

It was ignorant,
but trusted me,
asking me
to choose
for it.

You did not ask me
to choose. "


"Oh,
miserable me!

What is left
for me?"


"What not even you have deserved:

the wanton insult of Old Age. "


***
THE FIRST WRITING-MACHINES
From My Unpublished Autobiography
Some days ago a correspondent sent in an old typewritten sheet,
faded by age,
containing the following letter over the signature of Mark Twain:
"Hartford,
March 10,
1875.

"Please do not use my name in any way.

Please do not even divulge that fact that I own a machine.

I have entirely stopped using the typewriter,

for the reason that I never could write a letter
with it
to anybody without receiving a request by return mail that I would not only describe the machine,
but state what progress I had made in the use of it,
etc. ,
etc.

I don't like
to write letters,
and so I don't want people
to know I own this curiosity-breeding little joker. "


A note was sent
to Mr. Clemens asking him if the letter was genuine and whether he really had a typewriter as long ago as that.

Mr. Clemens replied that his best answer is the following chapter from his unpublished autobiography:


1904.

VILLA QUARTO,
FLORENCE,
JANUARY.

Dictating autobiography
to a typewriter is a new experience
for me,
but it goes very well,
and is going
to save time and "language"-- the kind of language that soothes vexation. I have dictated
to a typewriter before--but not autobiography.

Between that experience and the present one there lies a mighty gap-- more than thirty years!

It is sort of lifetime.

In that wide interval much has happened--
to the type-machine as well as
to the rest of us.

At the beginning of that interval a type-machine was a curiosity.

The person who owned one was a curiosity,
too.

But now it is the other way about:

the person who DOESN'T own one is a curiosity.

I saw a type-machine
for the first time in--what year?

I suppose it was 1873--because Nasby was
with me at the time,
and it was in Boston.

We must have been lecturing,
or we could not have been in Boston,
I take it.

I quitted the platform that season. But never mind about that,
it is no matter.

Nasby and I saw the machine through a window,
and went in
to look at it.

The salesman explained it
to us,
showed us samples of its work,
and said it could do fifty-seven words a minute--a statement which we frankly confessed that we did not believe.

So he put his type-girl
to work,
and we timed her by the watch.

She actually did the fifty-seven in sixty seconds.

We were partly convinced,
but said it probably couldn't happen again.

But it did.

We timed the girl over and over again--
with the same result always:

she won out.

She did her work on narrow slips of paper,
and we pocketed them as fast as she turned them out,

to show as curiosities.

The price of the machine was one hundred and twenty-five dollars.

I bought one,
and we went away very much excited. At the hotel we got out our slips and were a little disappointed
to find that they contained the same words.

The girl had economized time and labor by using a formula which she knew by heart.

However,
we argued--safely enough--that the FIRST type-girl must naturally take rank
with the first billiard-player:

neither of them could be expected
to get out of the game any more than a third or a half of what was in it.

If the machine survived--IF it survived-- experts would come
to the front,
by and by,
who would double the girl's output without a doubt.

They would do one hundred words a minute-- my talking speed on the platform.

That score has long ago been beaten. At home I played
with the toy,
repeated and repeating and repeated "The Boy stood on the Burning Deck," until I could turn that boy's adventure out at the rate of twelve words a minute;
then I resumed the pen,

for business,
and only worked the machine
to astonish inquiring visitors.

They carried off many reams of the boy and his burning deck. By and by I hired a young woman,
and did my first dictating (letters,
merely),
and my last until now.

The machine did not do both capitals and lower case (as now),
but only capitals.

Gothic capitals they were,
and sufficiently ugly.

I remember the first letter I dictated.

it was
to Edward Bok,
who was a boy then.

I was not acquainted
with him at that time.

His present enterprising spirit is not new-- he had it in that early day.

He was accumulating autographs,
and was not content
with mere signatures,
he wanted a whole autograph LETTER.

I furnished it--in type-written capitals,
SIGNATURE AND ALL.

It was long;
it was a sermon;
it contained advice;
also reproaches.

I said writing was my TRADE,
my bread-and-butter;
I said it was not fair
to ask a man
to give away samples of his trade;
would he ask the blacksmith
for a horseshoe?

would he ask the doctor
for a corpse?
Now I come
to an important matter--as I regard it.

In the year '74 the young woman copied a considerable part of a book of mine ON THE MACHINE.

In a previous chapter of this Autobiography I have claimed that I was the first person in the world that ever had a telephone in the house
for practical purposes;
I will now claim-- until dispossess--that I was the first person in the world
to APPLY THE TYPE-MACHINE
TO LITERATURE.

That book must have been THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER.

I wrote the first half of it in '72,
the rest of it in '74.

My machinist type-copied a book
for me in '74,
so I concluded it was that one. That early machine was full of caprices,
full of defects--devilish ones.

It had as many immoralities as the machine of today has virtues.

After a year or two I found that it was degrading my character,
so I thought I would give it
to Howells.

He was reluctant,

for he was suspicious of novelties and unfriendly toward them,
and he remains so
to this day.

But I persuaded him.

He had great confidence in me,
and I got him
to believe things about the machine that I did not believe myself.

He took it home
to Boston,
and my morals began
to improve,
but his have never recovered. He kept it six months,
and then returned it
to me.

I gave it away twice after that,
but it wouldn't stay;
it came back.

Then I gave it
to our coachman,
Patrick McAleer,
who was very grateful,
because he did not know the animal,
and thought I was trying
to make him wiser and better.

As soon as he got wiser and better he traded it
to a heretic
for a side-saddle which he could not use,
and there my knowledge of its history ends.

***
ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER
It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval villa in the country,
a mile or two from Florence.

I cannot speak the language;
I am too old not
to learn how,
also too busy when I am busy,
and too indolent when I am not;
wherefore some will imagine that I am having a dull time of it.

But it is not so.

The "help" are all natives;
they talk Italian
to me,
I answer in English;
I do not understand them,
they do not understand me,
consequently no harm is done,
and everybody is satisfied.

In order
to be just and fair,
I throw in an Italian word when I have one,
and this has a good influence.

I get the word out of the morning paper.

I have
to use it while it is fresh,

for I find that Italian words do not keep in this climate.

They fade toward night,
and next morning they are gone.

But it is no matter;
I get a new one out of the paper before breakfast,
and thrill the domestics
with it while it lasts.

I have no dictionary,
and I do not want one;
I can select words by the sound,
or by orthographic aspect.

Many of them have French or German or English look,
and these are the ones I enslave
for the day's service.

That is,
as a rule.

Not always.

If I find a learnable phrase that has an imposing look and warbles musically along I do not care
to know the meaning of it;
I pay it out
to the first applicant,
knowing that if I pronounce it carefully HE will understand it,
and that's enough. Yesterday's word was AVANTI.

It sounds Shakespearian,
and probably means Avaunt and quit my sight.

Today I have a whole phrase:

SONO DISPIACENTISSIMO.

I do not know what it means,
but it seems
to fit in everywhere and give satisfaction.

Although as a rule my words and phrases are good
for one day and train only,
I have several that stay by me all the time,

for some unknown reason,
and these come very handy when I get in
to a long conversation and need things
to fire up
with in monotonous stretches.

One of the best ones is DOV' `E IL GATTO.

It nearly always produces a pleasant surprise,
therefore I save it up
for places where I want
to express applause or admiration.

The fourth word has a French sound,
and I think the phrase means "that takes the cake. "


During my first week in the deep and dreamy stillness of this woodsy and flowery place I was without news of the outside world,
and was well content without it.

It has been four weeks since I had seen a newspaper,
and this lack seemed
to give life a new charm and grace,
and
to saturate it
with a feeling verging upon actual delight.

Then came a change that was
to be expected:

the appetite
for news began
to rise again,
after this invigorating rest.

I had
to feed it,
but I was not willing
to let it make me its helpless slave again;
I determined
to put it on a diet,
and a strict and limited one.

So I examined an Italian paper,

with the idea of feeding it on that,
and on that exclusively.

On that exclusively,
and without help of a dictionary.

In this way I should surely be well protected against overloading and indigestion. A glance at the telegraphic page filled me
with encouragement.

There were no scare-heads.

That was good--supremely good.

But there were headings--one-liners and two-liners--and that was good too;

for without these,
one must do as one does
with a German paper--pay our precious time in finding out what an article is about,
only
to discover,
in many cases,
that there is nothing in it of interest
to you.

The headline is a valuable thing. Necessarily we are all fond of murders,
scandals,
swindles,
robberies,
explosions,
collisions,
and all such things,
when we knew the people,
and when they are neighbors and friends,
but when they are strangers we do not get any great pleasure out of them,
as a rule.

Now the trouble
with an American paper is that it has no discrimination;
it rakes the whole earth
for blood and garbage,
and the result is that you are daily overfed and suffer a surfeit.

By habit you stow this muck every day,
but you come by and by
to take no vital interest in it--indeed,
you almost get tired of it.

As a rule,
forty-nine-fiftieths of it concerns strangers only-- people away off yonder,
a thousand miles,
two thousand miles,
ten thousand miles from where you are.

Why,
when you come
to think of it,
who cares what becomes of those people?

I would not give the assassination of one personal friend
for a whole massacre of those others.

And,

to my mind,
one relative or neighbor mixed up in a scandal is more interesting than a whole Sodom and Gomorrah of outlanders gone rotten.

Give me the home product every time. Very well.

I saw at a glance that the Florentine paper would suit me:

five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local;
they were adventures of one's very neighbors,
one might almost say one's friends.

In the matter of world news there was not too much,
but just about enough.

I subscribed.

I have had no occasion
to regret it.

Every morning I get all the news I need
for the day;
sometimes from the headlines,
sometimes from the text.

I have never had
to call
for a dictionary yet.

I read the paper
with ease.

Often I do not quite understand,
often some of the details escape me,
but no matter,
I get the idea.

I will cut out a passage or two,
then you see how limpid the language is:
Il ritorno dei Beati d'Italia
Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano
The first line means that the Italian sovereigns are coming back-- they have been
to England.

The second line seems
to mean that they enlarged the King at the Italian hospital.


with a banquet,
I suppose.

An English banquet has that effect.

Further:
Il ritorno dei Sovrani
a Roma
ROMA,
24,
ore 22,50. --I Sovrani e le Principessine Reali si attendono a Roma domani alle ore 15,51.

Return of the sovereigns
to Rome,
you see.

Date of the telegram,
Rome,
November 24,
ten minutes before twenty-three o'clock.

The telegram seems
to say,
"The Sovereigns and the Royal Children expect themselves at Rome tomorrow at fifty-one minutes after fifteen o'clock. "


I do not know about Italian time,
but I judge it begins at midnight and runs through the twenty-four hours without breaking bulk.

In the following ad,
the theaters open at half-past twenty.

If these are not matinees,
20. 30 must mean 8. 30 P. M. ,
by my reckoning.

Spettacolli del di 25
TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA--(Ore 20,30)--Opera.

BOH`EME.

TEATRO ALFIERI. --Compagnia drammatica Drago--(Ore 20,30)--LA LEGGE.

ALHAMBRA--(Ore 20,30)--Spettacolo variato.

SALA EDISON-- Grandiosoo spettacolo Cinematografico:

QUO VADIS?--Inaugurazione della Chiesa Russa--In coda al Direttissimo--Vedute di Firenze con gran movimeno--America:

Transpor
to tronchi giganteschi--I ladri in casa del Diavolo--Scene comiche.

CINEMATOGRAFO--Via Brunelleschi n.

4. --Programma straordinario,
DON CHISCIOTTE--Prezzi populari.

The whole of that is intelligible
to me--and sane and rational,
too-- except the remark about the Inauguration of a Russian Chinese.

That one oversizes my hand.

Give me five cards. This is a four-page paper;
and as it is set in long primer leaded and has a page of advertisements,
there is no room
for the crimes,
disasters,
and general sweepings of the outside world--thanks be!

Today I find only a single importation of the off-color sort:
Una Principessa
che fugge con un cocchiere
PARIGI,
24. --Il MATIN ha da Berlino che la principessa Schovenbare-Waldenbure scomparve il 9 novembre.

Sarebbe partita col suo cocchiere. La Principassa ha 27 anni.

Twenty-seven years old,
and scomparve--scampered--on the 9th November.

You see by the added detail that she departed
with her coachman.

I hope Sarebbe has not made a mistake,
but I am afraid the chances are that she has.

SONO DISPIACENTISSIMO. There are several fires:

also a couple of accidents.

This is one of them:
Grave disgrazia sul Ponte Vecchio
Stammattina,
circe le 7,30,
mentre Giuseppe Sciatti,
di anni 55,
di Casellina e Torri,
passava dal Ponte Vecchio,
stando sedu
to sopra un barroccio carico di verdura,
perse l' equilibrio e cadde al suolo,
rimanendo con la gamba destra sot
to una ruota del veicolo. Lo Sciatti fu subi
to raccol
to da alcuni cittadini,
che,
per mezzo della pubblica vettura n.

365,
lo transpor
to a San Giovanni di Dio. Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontro la frattura della gamba destra e alcune lievi escoriazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50 giorni salvo complicazioni.

What it seems
to say is this:

"Serious Disgrace on the Old Old Bridge.

This morning about 7. 30,
Mr. Joseph Sciatti,
aged 55,
of Casellina and Torri,
while standing up in a sitting posture on top of a carico barrow of vedure (foliage?

hay?

vegetables?),
lost his equilibrium and fell on himself,
arriving
with his left leg under one of the wheels of the vehicle. "

Said Sciatti was suddenly harvested (gathered in?) by several citizens,
who by means of public cab No.

365 transported
to St.

John of God. "


Paragraph No.

3 is a little obscure,
but I think it says that the medico set the broken left leg--right enough,
since there was nothing the matter
with the other one--and that several are encouraged
to hope that fifty days well fetch him around in quite giudicandolo-guaribile way,
if no complications intervene. I am sure I hope so myself. There is a great and peculiar charm about reading news-scraps in a language which you are not acquainted with--the charm that always goes
with the mysterious and the uncertain.

You can never be absolutely sure of the meaning of anything you read in such circumstances;
you are chasing an alert and gamy riddle all the time,
and the baffling turns and dodges of the prey make the life of the hunt.

A dictionary would spoil it.

Sometimes a single word of doubtful purport will cast a veil of dreamy and golden uncertainty over a whole paragraph of cold and practical certainties,
and leave steeped in a haunting and adorable mystery an incident which had been vulgar and commonplace but
for that benefaction.

Would you be wise
to draw a dictionary on that gracious word?

would you be properly grateful?
After a couple of days' rest I now come back
to my subject and seek a case in point.

I find it without trouble,
in the morning paper;
a cablegram from Chicago and Indiana by way of Paris.

All the words save one are guessable by a person ignorant of Italian:
Revolverate in teatro
PARIGI,
27. --La PATRIE ha da Chicago:
Il guardiano del teatro dell'opera di Walace (Indiana),
avendo volu
to espellare uno spettatore che continuava a fumare malgrado il diviety,
ques
to spalleggia
to dai suoi amici tir`o diversi colpi di rivoltella.

Il guardiano ripose.

Nacque una scarica generale.

Grande panico tra gli spettatori.

Nessun ferito.

TRANSLATION. --"Revolveration in Theater.

PARIS,
27TH.

LA PATRIE has from Chicago:

The cop of the theater of the opera of Wallace,
Indiana,
had willed
to expel a spectator which continued
to smoke in spite of the prohibition,
who,
spalleggia
to by his friends,
tir'o (Fr.

TIR'E,
Anglice PULLED) manifold revolver-shots;
great panic among the spectators.

Nobody hurt. "


It is bettable that that harmless cataclysm in the theater of the opera of Wallace,
Indiana,
excited not a person in Europe but me,
and so came near
to not being worth cabling
to Florence by way of France.

But it does excite me.

It excites me because I cannot make out,

for sure,
what it was that moved the spectator
to resist the officer.

I was gliding along smoothly and without obstruction or accident,
until I came
to that word "spalleggiato," then the bottom fell out.

You notice what a rich gloom,
what a somber and pervading mystery,
that word sheds all over the whole Wallachian tragedy.

That is the charm of the thing,
that is the delight of it.

This is where you begin,
this is where you revel.

You can guess and guess,
and have all the fun you like;
you need not be afraid there will be an end
to it;
none is possible,

for no amount of guessing will ever furnish you a meaning
for that word that you can be sure is the right one.

All the other words give you hints,
by their form,
their sound,
or their spelling--this one doesn't,
this one throws out no hints,
this one keeps its secret.

If there is even the slightest slight shadow of a hint anywhere,
it lies in the very meagerly suggestive fact that "spalleggiato" carries our word "egg" in its stomach.

Well,
make the most out of it,
and then where are you at?

You conjecture that the spectator which was smoking in spite of the prohibition and become reprohibited by the guardians,
was "egged on" by his friends,
and that was owing
to that evil influence that he initiated the revolveration in theater that has galloped under the sea and come crashing through the European press without exciting anybody but me.

But are you sure,
are you dead sure,
that that was the way of it?

No.

Then the uncertainty remains,
the mystery abides,
and
with it the charm.

Guess again. If I had a phrase-book of a really satisfactory sort I would study it,
and not give all my free time
to undictionarial readings,
but there is no such work on the market.

The existing phrase-books are inadequate.

They are well enough as far as they go,
but when you fall down and skin your leg they don't tell you what
to say.

***
ITALIAN
WITH GRAMMAR
I found that a person of large intelligence could read this beautiful language
with considerable facility without a dictionary,
but I presently found that
to such a parson a grammar could be of use at times.

It is because,
if he does not know the WERE'S and the WAS'S and the MAYBE'S and the HAS-BEENS'S apart,
confusions and uncertainties can arise.

He can get the idea that a thing is going
to happen next week when the truth is that it has already happened week before last.

Even more previously,
sometimes.

Examination and inquiry showed me that the adjectives and such things were frank and fair-minded and straightforward,
and did not shuffle;
it was the Verb that mixed the hands,
it was the Verb that lacked stability,
it was the Verb that had no permanent opinion about anything,
it was the Verb that was always dodging the issue and putting out the light and making all the trouble. Further examination,
further inquiry,
further reflection,
confirmed this judgment,
and established beyond peradventure the fact that the Verb was the storm-center.

This discovery made plain the right and wise course
to pursue in order
to acquire certainty and exactness in understanding the statements which the newspaper was daily endeavoring
to convey
to me:

I must catch a Verb and tame it.

I must find out its ways,
I must spot its eccentricities,
I must penetrate its disguises,
I must intelligently foresee and forecast at least the commoner of the dodges it was likely
to try upon a stranger in given circumstances,
I must get in on its main shifts and head them off,
I must learn its game and play the limit. I had noticed,
in other foreign languages,
that verbs are bred in families,
and that the members of each family have certain features or resemblances that are common
to that family and distinguish it from the other families--the other kin,
the cousins and what not.

I had noticed that this family-mark is not usually the nose or the hair,
so
to speak,
but the tail--the Termination--and that these tails are quite definitely differentiated;
insomuch that an expert can tell a Pluperfect from a Subjunctive by its tail as easily and as certainly as a cowboy can tell a cow from a horse by the like process,
the result of observation and culture.

I should explain that I am speaking of legitimate verbs,
those verbs which in the slang of the grammar are called Regular.

There are other--I am not meaning
to conceal this;
others called Irregulars,
born out of wedlock,
of unknown and uninteresting parentage,
and naturally destitute of family resemblances,
as regards
to all features,
tails included.

But of these pathetic outcasts I have nothing
to say.

I do not approve of them,
I do not encourage them;
I am prudishly delicate and sensitive,
and I do not allow them
to be used in my presence. But,
as I have said,
I decided
to catch one of the others and break it in
to harness.

One is enough.

Once familiar
with its assortment of tails,
you are immune;
after that,
no regular verb can conceal its specialty from you and make you think it is working the past or the future or the conditional or the unconditional when it is engaged in some other line of business--its tail will give it away.

I found out all these things by myself,
without a teacher. I selected the verb AMARE,

TO LOVE.

Not
for any personal reason,

for I am indifferent about verbs;
I care no more
for one verb than
for another,
and have little or no respect
for any of them;
but in foreign languages you always begin
with that one.

Why,
I don't know.

It is merely habit,
I suppose;
the first teacher chose it,
Adam was satisfied,
and there hasn't been a successor since
with originality enough
to start a fresh one.


for they ARE a pretty limited lot,
you will admit that?

Originality is not in their line;
they can't think up anything new,
anything
to freshen up the old moss-grown dullness of the language lesson and put life and "go" in
to it,
and charm and grace and picturesqueness. I knew I must look after those details myself;
therefore I thought them out and wrote them down,
and set
for the FACCHINO and explained them
to him,
and said he must arrange a proper plant,
and get together a good stock company among the CONTADINI,
and design the costumes,
and distribute the parts;
and drill the troupe,
and be ready in three days
to begin on this Verb in a shipshape and workman-like manner.

I told him
to put each grand division of it under a foreman,
and each subdivision under a subordinate of the rank of sergeant or corporal or something like that,
and
to have a different uniform
for each squad,
so that I could tell a Pluperfect from a Compound Future without looking at the book;
the whole battery
to be under his own special and particular command,

with the rank of Brigadier,
and I
to pay the freight. I then inquired in
to the character and possibilities of the selected verb,
and was much disturbed
to find that it was over my size,
it being chambered
for fifty-seven rounds--fifty-seven ways of saying I LOVE without reloading;
and yet none of them likely
to convince a girl that was laying
for a title,
or a title that was laying
for rocks. It seemed
to me that
with my inexperience it would be foolish
to go in
to action
with this mitrailleuse,
so I ordered it
to the rear and told the facchino
to provide something a little more primitive
to start with,
something less elaborate,
some gentle old-fashioned flint-lock,
smooth-bore,
double-barreled thing,
calculated
to cripple at two hundred yards and kill at forty--an arrangement suitable
for a beginner who could be satisfied
with moderate results on the offstart and did not wish
to take the whole territory in the first campaign. But in vain.

He was not able
to mend the matter,
all the verbs being of the same build,
all Gatlings,
all of the same caliber and delivery,
fifty-seven
to the volley,
and fatal at a mile and a half.

But he said the auxiliary verb AVERE,

TO HAVE,
was a tidy thing,
and easy
to handle in a seaway,
and less likely
to miss stays in going about than some of the others;
so,
upon his recommendation I chose that one,
and told him
to take it along and scrape its bottom and break out its spinnaker and get it ready
for business. I will explain that a facchino is a general-utility domestic.

Mine was a horse-doctor in his better days,
and a very good one.

At the end of three days the facchino-doctor-brigadier was ready.

I was also ready,

with a stenographer.

We were in a room called the Rope-Walk.

This is a formidably long room,
as is indicated by its facetious name,
and is a good place
for reviews.

At 9:30 the F. -D. -B.

took his place near me and gave the word of command;
the drums began
to rumble and thunder,
the head of the forces appeared at an upper door,
and the "march-past" was on.

Down they filed,
a blaze of variegated color,
each squad gaudy in a uniform of its own and bearing a banner inscribed
with its verbal rank and quality:

first the Present Tense in Mediterranean blue and old gold,
then the Past Definite in scarlet and black,
then the Imperfect in green and yellow,
then the Indicative Future in the stars and stripes,
then the Old Red Sandstone Subjunctive in purple and silver-- and so on and so on,
fifty-seven privates and twenty commissioned and non-commissioned officers;
certainly one of the most fiery and dazzling and eloquent sights I have ever beheld.

I could not keep back the tears.

Presently:
"Halt!" commanded the Brigadier. "

Front--face!"
"Right dress!"
"Stand at ease!"
"One--two--three.

In unison--RECITE!"
It was fine.

In one noble volume of sound of all the fifty-seven Haves in the Italian language burst forth in an exalting and splendid confusion.

Then came commands:
"About--face!

Eyes--front!

Helm alee--hard aport!

Forward--march!" and the drums let go again. When the last Termination had disappeared,
the commander said the instruction drill would now begin,
and asked
for suggestions.

I said:
"They say I HAVE,
THOU HAST,
HE HAS,
and so on,
but they don't say WHAT.

It will be better,
and more definite,
if they have something
to have;
just an object,
you know,
a something--anything will do;
anything that will give the listener a sort of personal as well as grammatical interest in their joys and complaints,
you see. "


He said:
"It is a good point.

Would a dog do?"


I said I did not know,
but we could try a dog and see.

So he sent out an aide-de-camp
to give the order
to add the dog.

The six privates of the Present Tense now filed in,
in charge of Sergeant AVERE (
TO HAVE),
and displaying their banner.

They formed in line of battle,
and recited,
one at a time,
thus:
"IO HO UN CANE,
I have a dog. "


"TU HAI UN CANE,
thou hast a dog. "


"EGLI HA UN CANE,
he has a dog. "


"NOI ABBIAMO UN CANE,
we have a dog. "


"VOI AVETE UN CANE,
you have a dog. "


"EGLINO HANNO UN CANE,
they have a dog. "


No comment followed.

They returned
to camp,
and I reflected a while.

The commander said:
"I fear you are disappointed. "


"Yes," I said;
"they are too monotonous,
too singsong,

to dead-and-alive;
they have no expression,
no elocution.

It isn't natural;
it could never happen in real life.

A person who had just acquired a dog is either blame' glad or blame' sorry.

He is not on the fence.

I never saw a case.

What the nation do you suppose is the matter
with these people?"


He thought maybe the trouble was
with the dog.

He said:
"These are CONTADINI,
you know,
and they have a prejudice against dogs-- that is,
against marimane.

Marimana dogs stand guard over people's vines and olives,
you know,
and are very savage,
and thereby a grief and an inconvenience
to persons who want other people's things at night.

In my judgment they have taken this dog
for a marimana,
and have soured on him. "


I saw that the dog was a mistake,
and not functionable:

we must try something else;
something,
if possible,
that could evoke sentiment,
interest,
feeling. "

What is cat,
in Italian?"

I asked. "

Gatto. "


"Is it a gentleman cat,
or a lady?"


"Gentleman cat. "


"How are these people as regards that animal?"


"We-ll,
they--they--"
"You hesitate:

that is enough.

How are they about chickens?"


He tilted his eyes toward heaven in mute ecstasy.

I understood. "

What is chicken,
in Italian?"

I asked. "

Pollo,
PODERE. "

(Podere is Italian
for master.

It is a title of courtesy,
and conveys reverence and admiration. ) "Pollo is one chicken by itself;
when there are enough present
to constitute a plural,
it is POLLI. "


"Very well,
polli will do.

Which squad is detailed
for duty next?"


"The Past Definite. "


"Send out and order it
to the front--
with chickens.

And let them understand that we don't want any more of this cold indifference. "


He gave the order
to an aide,
adding,

with a haunting tenderness in his tone and a watering mouth in his aspect:
"Convey
to them the conception that these are unprotected chickens. "

He turned
to me,
saluting
with his hand
to his temple,
and explained,
"It will inflame their interest in the poultry,
sire. "


A few minutes elapsed.

Then the squad marched in and formed up,
their faces glowing
with enthusiasm,
and the file-leader shouted:
"EBBI POLLI,
I had chickens!"
"Good!" I said.

"Go on,
the next. "


"AVEST POLLI,
thou hadst chickens!"
"Fine!

Next!"
"EBBE POLLI,
he had chickens!"
"Moltimoltissimo!

Go on,
the next!"
"AVEMMO POLLI,
we had chickens!"
"Basta-basta aspettat
to avanti--last man--CHARGE!"
"EBBERO POLLI,
they had chickens!"
Then they formed in echelon,
by columns of fours,
refused the left,
and retired in great style on the double-quick.

I was enchanted,
and said:
"Now,
doctor,
that is something LIKE!

Chickens are the ticket,
there is no doubt about it.

What is the next squad?"


"The Imperfect. "


"How does it go?"


"IO AVENA,
I had,
TU AVEVI,
thou hadst,
EGLI AVENA,
he had,
NOI AV--"
Wait--we've just HAD the hads.

what are you giving me?"


"But this is another breed. "


"What do we want of another breed?

Isn't one breed enough?

HAD is HAD,
and your tricking it out in a fresh way of spelling isn't going
to make it any hadder than it was before;
now you know that yourself. "


"But there is a distinction--they are not just the same Hads. "


"How do you make it out?"


"Well,
you use that first Had when you are referring
to something that happened at a named and sharp and perfectly definite moment;
you use the other when the thing happened at a vaguely defined time and in a more prolonged and indefinitely continuous way. "


'Why,
doctor,
it is pure nonsense;
you know it yourself.

Look here:

If I have had a had,
or have wanted
to have had a had,
or was in a position right then and there
to have had a had that hadn't had any chance
to go out hadding on account of this foolish discrimination which lets one Had go hadding in any kind of indefinite grammatical weather but restricts the other one
to definite and datable meteoric convulsions,
and keeps it pining around and watching the barometer all the time,
and liable
to get sick through confinement and lack of exercise,
and all that sort of thing,
why--why,
the inhumanity of it is enough,
let alone the wanton superfluity and uselessness of any such a loafing consumptive hospital-bird of a Had taking up room and cumbering the place
for nothing.

These finical refinements revolt me;
it is not right,
it is not honorable;
it is constructive nepotism
to keep in office a Had that is so delicate it can't come out when the wind's in the nor'west--I won't have this dude on the payroll.

Cancel his exequator;
and look here--"
"But you miss the point.

It is like this.

You see--"
"Never mind explaining,
I don't care anything about it.

Six Hads is enough
for me;
anybody that needs twelve,
let him subscribe;
I don't want any stock in a Had Trust.

Knock out the Prolonged and Indefinitely Continuous;
four-fifths of it is water,
anyway. "


"But I beg you,
podere!

It is often quite indispensable in cases where--"
"Pipe the next squad
to the assault!"
But it was not
to be;

for at that moment the dull boom of the noon gun floated up out of far-off Florence,
followed by the usual softened jangle of church-bells,
Florentine and suburban,
that bursts out in murmurous response;
by labor-union law the COLAZIONE [1] must stop;
stop promptly,
stop instantly,
stop definitely,
like the chosen and best of the breed of Hads. - - -
1.

Colazione is Italian
for a collection,
a meeting,
a seance,
a sitting. --M. T.

***
A BURLESQUE BIOGRAPHY
Two or three persons having at different times intimated that if I would write an autobiography they would read it when they got leisure,
I yield at last
to this frenzied public demand and here
with tender my history. Ours is a noble house,
and stretches a long way back in
to antiquity.

The earliest ancestor the Twains have any record of was a friend of the family by the name of Higgins.

This was in the eleventh century,
when our people were living in Aberdeen,
county of Cork,
England.

Why it is that our long line has ever since borne the maternal name (except when one of them now and then took a playful refuge in an alias
to avert foolishness),
instead of Higgins,
is a mystery which none of us has ever felt much desire
to stir.

It is a kind of vague,
pretty romance,
and we leave it alone.

All the old families do that way. Arthour Twain was a man of considerable note--a solicitor on the highway in William Rufus's time.

At about the age of thirty he went
to one of those fine old English places of resort called Newgate,

to see about something,
and never returned again.

While there he died suddenly. Augustus Twain seems
to have made something of a stir about the year 1160.

He was as full of fun as he could be,
and used
to take his old saber and sharpen it up,
and get in a convenient place on a dark night,
and stick it through people as they went by,

to see them jump.

He was a born humorist.

But he got
to going too far
with it;
and the first time he was found stripping one of these parties,
the authorities removed one end of him,
and put it up on a nice high place on Temple Bar,
where it could contemplate the people and have a good time.

He never liked any situation so much or stuck
to it so long. Then
for the next two hundred years the family tree shows a succession of soldiers--noble,
high-spirited fellows,
who always went in
to battle singing,
right behind the army,
and always went out a-whooping,
right ahead of it. This is a scathing rebuke
to old dead Froissart's poor witticism that our family tree never had but one limb
to it,
and that that one stuck out at right angles,
and bore fruit winter and summer. Early in the fifteenth century we have Beau Twain,
called "the Scholar. "

He wrote a beautiful,
beautiful hand.

And he could imitate anybody's hand so closely that it was enough
to make a person laugh his head off
to see it.

He had infinite sport
with his talent.

But by and by he took a contract
to break stone
for a road,
and the roughness of the work spoiled his hand.

Still,
he enjoyed life all the time he was in the stone business,
which,

with inconsiderable intervals,
was some forty-two years.

In fact,
he died in harness.

During all those long years he gave such satisfaction that he never was through
with one contract a week till the government gave him another.

He was a perfect pet.

And he was always a favorite
with his fellow-artists,
and was a conspicuous member of their benevolent secret society,
called the Chain Gang.

He always wore his hair short,
had a preference
for striped clothes,
and died lamented by the government.

He was a sore loss
to his country.


for he was so regular. Some years later we have the illustrious John Morgan Twain.

He came over
to this country
with Columbus in 1492 as a passenger.

He appears
to have been of a crusty,
uncomfortable disposition.

He complained of the food all the way over,
and was always threatening
to go ashore unless there was a change.

He wanted fresh shad.

Hardly a day passed over his head that he did not go idling about the ship
with his nose in the air,
sneering about the commander,
and saying he did not believe Columbus knew where he was going
to or had ever been there before.

The memorable cry of "Land ho!" thrilled every heart in the ship but his.

He gazed awhile through a piece of smoked glass at the penciled line lying on the distant water,
and then said:

"Land be hanged--it's a raft!"
When this questionable passenger came on board the ship,
be brought nothing
with him but an old newspaper containing a handkerchief marked "B.

G. ," one cotton sock marked "L.

W.

C. ," one woolen one marked "D.

F. ," and a night-shirt marked "O.

M.

R. "

And yet during the voyage he worried more about his "trunk," and gave himself more airs about it,
than all the rest of the passengers put together.

If the ship was "down by the head," and would not steer,
he would go and move his "trunk" further aft,
and then watch the effect.

If the ship was "by the stern," he would suggest
to Columbus
to detail some men
to "shift that baggage. "

In storms he had
to be gagged,
because his wailings about his "trunk" made it impossible
for the men
to hear the orders.

The man does not appear
to have been openly charged
with any gravely unbecoming thing,
but it is noted in the ship's log as a "curious circumstance" that albeit he brought his baggage on board the ship in a newspaper,
he took it ashore in four trunks,
a queensware crate,
and a couple of champagne baskets.

But when he came back insinuating,
in an insolent,
swaggering way,
that some of this things were missing,
and was going
to search the other passengers' baggage,
it was too much,
and they threw him overboard.

They watched long and wonderingly
for him
to come up,
but not even a bubble rose on the quietly ebbing tide.

But while every one was most absorbed in gazing over the side,
and the interest was momentarily increasing,
it was observed
with consternation that the vessel was adrift and the anchor-cable hanging limp from the bow.

Then in the ship's dimmed and ancient log we find this quaint note:
"In time it was discouvered yt ye troblesome passenger hadde gone downe and got ye anchor,
and toke ye same and solde it
to ye dam sauvages from ye interior,
saying yt he hadde founde it,
ye sonne of a ghun!"
Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts,
and it is
with pride that we call
to mind the fact that he was the first white person who ever interested himself in the work of elevating and civilizing our Indians.

He built a commodious jail and put up a gallows,
and
to his dying day he claimed
with satisfaction that he had had a more restraining and elevating influence on the Indians than any other reformer that ever labored among them.

At this point the chronicle becomes less frank and chatty,
and closes abruptly by saying that the old voyager went
to see his gallows perform on the first white man ever hanged in America,
and while there received injuries which terminated in his death. The great-grandson of the "Reformer" flourished in sixteen hundred and something,
and was known in our annals as "the old Admiral," though in history he had other titles.

He was long in command of fleets of swift vessels,
well armed and manned,
and did great service in hurrying up merchantmen.

Vessels which he followed and kept his eagle eye on,
always made good fair time across the ocean.

But if a ship still loitered in spite of all he could do,
his indignation would grow till he could contain himself no longer-- and then he would take that ship home where he lived and keep it there carefully,
expecting the owners
to come
for it,
but they never did.

And he would try
to get the idleness and sloth out of the sailors of that ship by compelling them
to take invigorating exercise and a bath.

He called it "walking a plank. "

All the pupils liked it.

At any rate,
they never found any fault
with it after trying it.

When the owners were late coming
for their ships,
the Admiral always burned them,
so that the insurance money should not be lost.

At last this fine old tar was cut down in the fullness of his years and honors.

And
to her dying day,
his poor heart-broken widow believed that if he had been cut down fifteen minutes sooner he might have been resuscitated. Charles Henry Twain lived during the latter part of the seventeenth century,
and was a zealous and distinguished missionary.

He converted sixteen thousand South Sea islanders,
and taught them that a dog-tooth necklace and a pair of spectacles was not enough clothing
to come
to divine service in.

His poor flock loved him very,
very dearly;
and when his funeral was over,
they got up in a body (and came out of the restaurant)
with tears in their eyes,
and saying,
one
to another,
that he was a good tender missionary,
and they wished they had some more of him. Pah-go-to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye-Twain) adorned the middle of the eighteenth century,
and aided General Braddock
with all his heart
to resist the oppressor Washington.

It was this ancestor who fired seventeen times at our Washington from behind a tree.

So far the beautiful romantic narrative in the moral story-books is correct;
but when that narrative goes on
to say that at the seventeenth round the awe-stricken savage said solemnly that that man was being reserved by the Great Spirit
for some mighty mission,
and he dared not lift his sacrilegious rifle against him again,
the narrative seriously impairs the integrity of history.

What he did say was:
"It ain't no (hic) no use.

'At man's so drunk he can't stan' still long enough
for a man
to hit him.

I (hic) I can't 'ford
to fool away any more am'nition on him. "


That was why he stopped at the seventeenth round,
and it was a good,
plain,
matter-of-fact reason,
too,
and one that easily commends itself
to us by the eloquent,
persuasive flavor of probability there is about it. I also enjoyed the story-book narrative,
but I felt a marring misgiving that every Indian at Braddock's Defeat who fired at a soldier a couple of times (two easily grows
to seventeen in a century),
and missed him,
jumped
to the conclusion that the Great Spirit was reserving that soldier
for some grand mission;
and so I somehow feared that the only reason why Washington's case is remembered and the others forgotten is,
that in his the prophecy came true,
and in that of the others it didn't.

There are not books enough on earth
to contain the record of the prophecies Indians and other unauthorized parties have made;
but one may carry in his overcoat pockets the record of all the prophecies that have been fulfilled. I will remark here,
in passing,
that certain ancestors of mine are so thoroughly well-known in history by their aliases,
that I have not felt it
to be worth while
to dwell upon them,
or even mention them in the order of their birth.

Among these may be mentioned Richard Brinsley Twain,
alias Guy Fawkes;
John Wentworth Twain,
alias Sixteen-String Jack;
William Hogarth Twain,
alias Jack Sheppard;
Ananias Twain,
alias Baron Munchausen;
John George Twain,
alias Captain Kydd;
and then there are George Francis Twain,
Tom Pepper,
Nebuchadnezzar,
and Baalam's Ass--they all belong
to our family,
but
to a branch of it somewhat distinctly removed from the honorable direct line--in fact,
a collateral branch,
whose members chiefly differ from the ancient stock in that,
in order
to acquire the notoriety we have always yearned and hungered for,
they have got in
to a low way of going
to jail instead of getting hanged. It is not well,
when writing an autobiography,

to follow your ancestry down too close
to your own time--it is safest
to speak only vaguely of your great-grandfather,
and then skip from there
to yourself,
which I now do. I was born without teeth--and there Richard III.

had the advantage of me;
but I was born without a humpback,
likewise,
and there I had the advantage of him.

My parents were neither very poor nor conspicuously honest. But now a thought occurs
to me.

My own history would really seem so tame contrasted
with that of my ancestors,
that it is simply wisdom
to leave it unwritten until I am hanged.

If some other biographies I have read had stopped
with the ancestry until a like event occurred,
it would have been a felicitous thing
for the reading public.

How does it strike you?
***
HOW
TO TELL A STORY
The Humorous Story an American Development. --Its Difference
from Comic and Witty Stories
I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought
to be told.

I only claim
to know how a story ought
to be told,

for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers
for many years. There are several kinds of stories,
but only one difficult kind-- the humorous.

I will talk mainly about that one.

The humorous story is American,
the comic story is English,
the witty story is French.

The humorous story depends
for its effect upon the MANNER of the telling;
the comic story and the witty story upon the MATTER. The humorous story may be spun out
to great length,
and may wander around as much as it pleases,
and arrive nowhere in particular;
but the comic and witty stories must be brief and end
with a point.

The humorous story bubbles gently along,
the others burst. The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art-- and only an artist can tell it;
but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty story;
anybody can do it.

The art of telling a humorous story--understand,
I mean by word of mouth,
not print-- was created in America,
and has remained at home. The humorous story is told gravely;
the teller does his best
to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it;
but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard,
then tells it
with eager delight,
and is the first person
to laugh when he gets through.

And sometimes,
if he has had good success,
he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the "nub" of it and glance around from face
to face,
collecting applause,
and then repeat it again.

It is a pathetic thing
to see. Very often,
of course,
the rambling and disjointed humorous story finishes
with a nub,
point,
snapper,
or whatever you like
to call it.

Then the listener must be alert,

for in many cases the teller will divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual and indifferent way,

with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub. Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal;
then when the belated audience presently caught the joke he would look up
with innocent surprise,
as if wondering what they had found
to laugh at.

Dan Setchell used it before him,
Nye and Riley and others use it today. But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub;
he shouts it at you--every time.

And when he prints it,
in England,
France,
Germany,
and Italy,
he italicizes it,
puts some whopping exclamation-points after it,
and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis.

All of which is very depressing,
and makes one want
to renounce joking and lead a better life. Let me set down an instance of the comic method,
using an anecdote which has been popular all over the world
for twelve or fifteen hundred years.

The teller tells it in this way:
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER
In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off appealed
to another soldier who was hurrying by
to carry him
to the rear,
informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained;
whereupon the generous son of Mars,
shouldering the unfortunate,
proceeded
to carry out his desire.

The bullets and cannon-balls were flying in all directions,
and presently one of the latter took the wounded man's head off--without,
however,
his deliverer being aware of it.

In no long time he was hailed by an officer,
who said:
"Where are you going
with that carcass?"


"
to the rear,
sir--he's lost his leg!"
"His leg,
forsooth?"

responded the astonished officer;
"you mean his head,
you booby. "


Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden,
and stood looking down upon it in great perplexity.

At length he said:
"It is true,
sir,
just as you have said. "

Then after a pause he added,
"BUT HE TOLD ME IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!"
Here the narrator bursts in
to explosion after explosion of thunderous horse-laughter,
repeating that nub from time
to time through his gasping and shriekings and suffocatings. It takes only a minute and a half
to tell that in its comic-story form;
and isn't worth the telling,
after all.

Put in
to the humorous-story form it takes ten minutes,
and is about the funniest thing I have ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it. He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has just heard it
for the first time,
thinks it is unspeakably funny,
and is trying
to repeat it
to a neighbor.

But he can't remember it;
so he gets all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round,
putting in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only retard it;
taking them out conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless;
making minor mistakes now and then and stopping
to correct them and explain how he came
to make them;
remembering things which he forgot
to put in in their proper place and going back
to put them in there;
stopping his narrative a good while in order
to try
to recall the name of the soldier that was hurt,
and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not mentioned,
and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance,
anyway-- better,
of course,
if one knew it,
but not essential,
after all-- and so on,
and so on,
and so on. The teller is innocent and happy and pleased
with himself,
and has
to stop every little while
to hold himself in and keep from laughing outright;
and does hold in,
but his body quakes in a jelly-like way
with interior chuckles;
and at the end of the ten minutes the audience have laughed until they are exhausted,
and the tears are running down their faces. The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of the old farmer are perfectly simulated,
and the result is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious.

This is art--and fine and beautiful,
and only a master can compass it;
but a machine could tell the other story.
to string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and sometimes purposeless way,
and seem innocently unaware that they are absurdities,
is the basis of the American art,
if my position is correct.

Another feature is the slurring of the point.

A third is the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it,
as if one where thinking aloud.

The fourth and last is the pause. Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal.

He would begin
to tell
with great animation something which he seemed
to think was wonderful;
then lose confidence,
and after an apparently absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way;
and that was the remark intended
to explode the mine--and it did.
for instance,
he would say eagerly,
excitedly,
"I once knew a man in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation would die out;
a silent,
reflective pause would follow,
then he would say dreamily,
and as if
to himself,
"and yet that man could beat a drum better than any man I ever saw. "


The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story,
and a frequently recurring feature,
too.

It is a dainty thing,
and delicate,
and also uncertain and treacherous;

for it must be exactly the right length--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose and makes trouble.

If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed,
and the audience have had time
to divine that a surprise is intended--and then you can't surprise them,
of course. On the platform I used
to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause in front of the snapper on the end,
and that pause was the most important thing in the whole story.

If I got it the right length precisely,
I could spring the finishing ejaculation
with effect enough
to make some impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of her seat--and that was what I was after.

This story was called "The Golden Arm," and was told in this fashion.

You can practice
with it yourself--and mind you look out
for the pause and get it right.

THE GOLDEN ARM
Once 'pon a time dey wuz a momsus mean man,
en he live 'way out in de prairie all 'lone by hisself,
'cep'n he had a wife.

En bimeby she died,
en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her.

Well,
she had a golden arm--all solid gold,
fum de shoulder down.

He wuz pow'ful mean--pow'ful;
en dat night he couldn't sleep,
caze he want dat golden arm so bad. When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo';
so he git up,
he did,
en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her up en got de golden arm;
en he bent his head down 'gin de 'win,
en plowed en plowed en plowed thoo de snow.

Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerable pause here,
and look startled,
and take a listening attitude) en say:

"My LAN',
what's dat?"


En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind),
"Bzzz-z-zzz"--en den,
way back yonder whah de grave is,
he hear a VOICE!--he hear a voice all mix' up in de win'--can't hardly tell 'em 'part--"Bzzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?"

(You must begin
to shiver violently now. )
En he begin
to shiver en shake,
en say,
"Oh,
my!

OH,
my lan'!" en de win' blow de lantern out,
en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos' choke him,
en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead,
he so sk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin,
en (pause) it 'us comin AFTER him!

"Bzzz--zzz--zzz W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--ARM?"


When he git
to de pasture he hear it agin--closter now,
en A-COMIN'!--a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat the wind and the voice).

When he git
to de house he rush upstairs en jump in de bed en kiver up,
head and years,
en lay da shiverin' en shakin'--en den way out dah he hear it AGIN!--en a-COMIN'!

En bimeby he hear (pause--awed,
listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat HIT'S A-COMIN' UPSTAIRS!

Den he hear de latch,
en he KNOW it's in de room!
Den pooty soon he know it's a-STANNIN' BY DE BED!

(Pause. ) Den-- he know it's a-BENDIN' DOWN OVER HIM--en he cain't skasely git his breath!

Den--den--he seem
to feel someth'n' C-O-L-D,
right down 'most agin his head!

(Pause. )
Den de voice say,
RIGHT AT HIS YEAR--"W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?"

(You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly;
then you stare steadily and impressively in
to the face of the farthest-gone auditor-- a girl,
preferably--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin
to build itself in the deep hush.

When it has reached exactly the right length,
jump suddenly at that girl and yell,
"YOU'VE got it!"
If you've got the PAUSE right,
she'll fetch a dear little yelp and spring right out of her shoes.

But you MUST get the pause right;
and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever undertook.

***
GENERAL WASHINGTON'S NEGRO BODY-SERVANT
A Biographical Sketch
The stirring part of this celebrated colored man's life properly began
with his death--that is
to say,
the notable features of his biography began
with the first time he died.

He had been little heard of up
to that time,
but since then we have never ceased
to hear of him;
we have never ceased
to hear of him at stated,
unfailing intervals.

His was a most remarkable career,
and I have thought that its history would make a valuable addition
to our biographical literature.

Therefore,
I have carefully collated the materials
for such a work,
from authentic sources,
and here present them
to the public.

I have rigidly excluded from these pages everything of a doubtful character,

with the object in view of introducing my work in
to the schools
for the instruction of the youth of my country. The name of the famous body-servant of General Washington was George.

After serving his illustrious master faithfully
for half a century,
and enjoying throughout his long term his high regard and confidence,
it became his sorrowful duty at last
to lay that beloved master
to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac.

Ten years afterward-- in 1809--full of years and honors,
he died himself,
mourned by all who knew him.

The Boston GAZETTE of that date thus refers
to the event:
George,
the favorite body-servant of the lamented Washington,
died in Richmond,
Va. ,
last Tuesday,
at the ripe age of 95 years.

His intellect was unimpaired,
and his memory tenacious,
up
to within a few minutes of his decease.

He was present at the second installation of Washington as President,
and also at his funeral,
and distinctly remembered all the prominent incidents connected
with those noted events.

From this period we hear no more of the favorite body-servant of General Washington until May,
1825,
at which time he died again.

A Philadelphia paper thus speaks of the sad occurrence:
At Macon,
Ga. ,
last week,
a colored man named George,
who was the favorite body-servant of General Washington,
died at the advanced age of 95 years.

Up
to within a few hours of his dissolution he was in full possession of all his faculties,
and could distinctly recollect the second installation of Washington,
his death and burial,
the surrender of Cornwallis,
the battle of Trenton,
the griefs and hardships of Valley Forge,
etc.

Deceased was followed
to the grave by the entire population of Macon.

On the Fourth of July,
1830,
and also of 1834 and 1836,
the subject of this sketch was exhibited in great state upon the rostrum of the orator of the day,
and in November of 1840 he died again.

The St.

Louis REPUBLICAN of the 25th of that month spoke as follows:
"ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONE.

"George,
once the favorite body-servant of General Washington,
died yesterday at the house of Mr. John Leavenworth in this city,
at the venerable age of 95 years.

He was in the full possession of his faculties up
to the hour of his death,
and distinctly recollected the first and second installations and death of President Washington,
the surrender of Cornwallis,
the battles of Trenton and Monmouth,
the sufferings of the patriot army at Valley Forge,
the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
the speech of Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Delegates,
and many other old-time reminiscences of stirring interest.

Few white men die lamented as was this aged negro.

The funeral was very largely attended. "


During the next ten or eleven years the subject of this sketch appeared at intervals at Fourth-of-July celebrations in various parts of the country,
and was exhibited upon the rostrum
with flattering success.

But in the fall of 1855 he died again.

The California papers thus speak of the event:
ANOTHER OLD HERO GONE
Died,
at Dutch Flat,
on the 7th of March,
George (once the confidential body-servant of General Washington),
at the great age of 95 years.

His memory,
which did not fail him till the last,
was a wonderful storehouse of interesting reminiscences.

He could distinctly recollect the first and second installations and death of President Washington,
the surrender of Cornwallis,
the battles of Trenton and Monmouth,
and Bunker Hill,
the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
and Braddock's defeat.

George was greatly respected in Dutch Flat,
and it is estimated that there were 10,000 people present at his funeral.

The last time the subject of this sketch died was in June,
1864;
and until we learn the contrary,
it is just
to presume that he died permanently this time.

The Michigan papers thus refer
to the sorrowful event:
ANOTHER CHERISHED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION GONE
George,
a colored man,
and once the favorite body-servant of George Washington,
died in Detroit last week,
at the patriarchal age of 95 years.


to the moment of his death his intellect was unclouded,
and he could distinctly remember the first and second installations and death of Washington,
the surrender of Cornwallis,
the battles of Trenton and Monmouth,
and Bunker Hill,
the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
Braddock's defeat,
the throwing over of the tea in Boston harbor,
and the landing of the PilgriMs. He died greatly respected,
and was followed
to the grave by a vast concourse of people.

The faithful old servant is gone!

We shall never see him more until he turns up again.

He has closed his long and splendid career of dissolution,

for the present,
and sleeps peacefully,
as only they sleep who have earned their rest.

He was in all respects a remarkable man.

He held his age better than any celebrity that has figured in history;
and the longer he lived the stronger and longer his memory grew.

If he lives
to die again,
he will distinctly recollect the discovery of America. The above r'esum'e of his biography I believe
to be substantially correct,
although it is possible that he may have died once or twice in obscure places where the event failed of newspaper notoriety.

One fault I find in all the notices of his death I have quoted,
and this ought
to be correct.

In them he uniformly and impartially died at the age of 95.

This could not have been.

He might have done that once,
or maybe twice,
but he could not have continued it indefinitely.

Allowing that when he first died,
he died at the age of 95,
he was 151 years old when he died last,
in 1864.

But his age did not keep pace
with his recollections.

When he died the last time,
he distinctly remembered the landing of the Pilgrims,
which took place in 1620.

He must have been about twenty years old when he witnessed that event,
wherefore it is safe
to assert that the body-servant of General Washington was in the neighborhood of two hundred and sixty or seventy years old when he departed this life finally. Having waited a proper length of time,

to see if the subject of his sketch had gone from us reliably and irrevocably,
I now publish his biography
with confidence,
and respectfully offer it
to a mourning nation. P. S. --I see by the papers that this imfamous old fraud has just died again,
in Arkansas.

This makes six times that he is known
to have died,
and always in a new place.

The death of Washington's body-servant has ceased
to be a novelty;
it's charm is gone;
the people are tired of it;
let it cease.

This well-meaning but misguided negro has not put six different communities
to the expense of burying him in state,
and has swindled tens of thousands of people in
to following him
to the grave under the delusion that a select and peculiar distinction was being conferred upon them.

Let him stay buried
for good now;
and let that newspaper suffer the severest censure that shall ever,
in all the future time,
publish
to the world that General Washington's favorite colored body-servant has died again.

***
WIT INSPIRATIONS OF THE "TWO-YEAR-OLDS"
All infants appear
to have an impertinent and disagreeable fashion nowadays of saying "smart" things on most occasions that offer,
and especially on occasions when they ought not
to be saying anything at all.

Judging by the average published specimens of smart sayings,
the rising generation of children are little better than idiots.

And the parents must surely be but little better than the children,

for in most cases they are the publishers of the sunbursts of infantile imbecility which dazzle us from the pages of our periodicals.

I may seem
to speak
with some heat,
not
to say a suspicion of personal spite;
and I do admit that it nettles me
to hear about so many gifted infants in these days,
and remember that I seldom said anything smart when I was a child.

I tried it once or twice,
but it was not popular.

The family were not expecting brilliant remarks from me,
and so they snubbed me sometimes and spanked me the rest.

But it makes my flesh creep and my blood run cold
to think what might have happened
to me if I had dared
to utter some of the smart things of this generation's "four-year-olds" where my father could hear me.


to have simply skinned me alive and considered his duty at an end would have seemed
to him criminal leniency toward one so sinning.

He was a stern,
unsmiling man,
and hated all forms of precocity.

If I had said some of the things I have referred to,
and said them in his hearing,
he would have destroyed me.

He would,
indeed.

He would,
provided the opportunity remained
with him.

But it would not,

for I would have had judgment enough
to take some strychnine first and say my smart thing afterward.

The fair record of my life has been tarnished by just one pun.

My father overheard that,
and he hunted me over four or five townships seeking
to take my life.

If I had been full-grown,
of course he would have been right;
but,
child as I was,
I could not know how wicked a thing I had done. I made one of those remarks ordinarily called "smart things" before that,
but it was not a pun.

Still,
it came near causing a serious rupture between my father and myself.

My father and mother,
my uncle Ephraim and his wife,
and one or two others were present,
and the conversation turned on a name
for me.

I was lying there trying some India-rubber rings of various patterns,
and endeavoring
to make a selection,

for I was tired of trying
to cut my teeth on people's fingers,
and wanted
to get hold of something that would enable me
to hurry the thing through and get something else.

Did you ever notice what a nuisance it was cutting your teeth on your nurse's finger,
or how back-breaking and tiresome it was trying
to cut them on your big toe?

And did you never get out of patience and wish your teeth were in Jerico long before you got them half cut?


to me it seems as if these things happened yesterday.

And they did,

to some children.

But I digress.

I was lying there trying the India-rubber rings.

I remember looking at the clock and noticing that in an hour and twenty-five minutes I would be two weeks old,
and thinking how little I had done
to merit the blessings that were so unsparingly lavished upon me.

My father said:
"Abraham is a good name.

My grandfather was named Abraham. "


My mother said:
"Abraham is a good name.

Very well.

Let us have Abraham
for one of his names. "


I said:
"Abraham suits the subscriber. "


My father frowned,
my mother looked pleased;
my aunt said:
"What a little darling it is!"
My father said:
"Isaac is a good name,
and Jacob is a good name. "


My mother assented,
and said:
"No names are better.

Let us add Isaac and Jacob
to his names. "


I said:
"All right.

Isaac and Jacob are good enough
for yours truly.

Pass me that rattle,
if you please.

I can't chew India-rubber rings all day. "


Not a soul made a memorandum of these sayings of mine,

for publication.

I saw that,
and did it myself,
else they would have been utterly lost.

So far from meeting
with a generous encouragement like other children when developing intellectually,
I was now furiously scowled upon by my father;
my mother looked grieved and anxious,
and even my aunt had about her an expression of seeming
to think that maybe I had gone too far.

I took a vicious bite out of an India-rubber ring,
and covertly broke the rattle over the kitten's head,
but said nothing.

Presently my father said:
"Samuel is a very excellent name. "


I saw that trouble was coming.

Nothing could prevent it.

I laid down my rattle;
over the side of the cradle I dropped my uncle's silver watch,
the clothes-brush,
the toy dog,
my tin soldier,
the nutmeg-grater,
and other matters which I was accustomed
to examine,
and meditate upon and make pleasant noises with,
and bang and batter and break when I needed wholesome entertainment.

Then I put on my little frock and my little bonnet,
and took my pygmy shoes in one hand and my licorice in the other,
and climbed out on the floor.

I said
to myself,
Now,
if the worse comes
to worst,
I am ready.

Then I said aloud,
in a firm voice:
"Father,
I cannot,
cannot wear the name of Samuel. "


"My son!"
"Father,
I mean it.

I cannot. "


"Why?"


"Father,
I have an invincible antipathy
to that name. "


"My son,
this is unreasonable.

Many great and good men have been named Samuel. "


"Sir,
I have yet
to hear of the first instance. "


"What!

There was Samuel the prophet.

Was not he great and good?"


"Not so very. "


"My son!


with His own voice the Lord called him. "


"Yes,
sir,
and had
to call him a couple times before he could come!"
And then I sallied forth,
and that stern old man sallied forth after me.

He overtook me at noon the following day,
and when the interview was over I had acquired the name of Samuel,
and a thrashing,
and other useful information;
and by means of this compromise my father's wrath was appeased and a misunderstanding bridged over which might have become a permanent rupture if I had chosen
to be unreasonable.

But just judging by this episode,
what would my father have done
to me if I had ever uttered in his hearing one of the flat,
sickly things these "two-years-olds" say in print nowadays?

In my opinion there would have been a case of infanticide in our family.

***
AN ENTERTAINING ARTICLE
I take the following paragraph from an article in the Boston ADVERTISER:
AN ENGLISH CRITIC ON MARK TWAIN
Perhaps the most successful flights of humor of Mark Twain have been descriptions of the persons who did not appreciate his humor at all.

We have become familiar
with the Californians who were thrilled
with terror by his burlesque of a newspaper reporter's way of telling a story,
and we have heard of the Pennsylvania clergyman who sadly returned his INNOCENTS ABROAD
to the book-agent
with the remark that "the man who could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be an idiot. "

But Mark Twain may now add a much more glorious instance
to his string of trophies.

The SATURDAY REVIEW,
in its number of October 8th,
reviews his book of travels,
which has been republished in England,
and reviews it seriously.

We can imagine the delight of the humorist in reading this tribute
to his power;
and indeed it is so amusing in itself that he can hardly do better than reproduce the article in full in his next monthly Memoranda.

(Publishing the above paragraph thus,
gives me a sort of authority
for reproducing the SATURDAY REVIEW'S article in full in these pages.

I dearly wanted
to do it,

for I cannot write anything half so delicious myself.

If I had a cast-iron dog that could read this English criticism and preserve his austerity,
I would drive him off the door-step. )
(From the London "Saturday Review. "

)
REVIEWS OF NEW BOOKS
THE INNOCENTS ABROAD.

A Book of Travels.

By Mark Twain.

London:

Hotten,
publisher.

1870.

Lord Macaulay died too soon.

We never felt this so deeply as when we finished the last chapter of the above-named extravagant work.

Macaulay died too soon--
for none but he could mete out complete and comprehensive justice
to the insolence,
the impertinence,
the presumption,
the mendacity,
and,
above all,
the majestic ignorance of this author.
to say that the INNOCENTS ABROAD is a curious book,
would be
to use the faintest language--would be
to speak of the Matterhorn as a neat elevation or of Niagara as being "nice" or "pretty. "

"Curious" is too tame a word where
with
to describe the imposing insanity of this work.

There is no word that is large enough or long enough.

Let us,
therefore,
photograph a passing glimpse of book and author,
and trust the rest
to the reader.

Let the cultivated English student of human nature picture
to himself this Mark Twain as a person capable of doing the following-described things--and not only doing them,
but
with incredible innocence PRINTING THEM calmly and tranquilly in a book.


for instance:
He states that he entered a hair-dresser's in Paris
to get shaved,
and the first "rake" the barber gave him
with his razor it LOOSENED HIS "HIDE" and LIFTED HIM OUT OF THE CHAIR. This is unquestionably exaggerated.

In Florence he was so annoyed by beggars that he pretends
to have seized and eaten one in a frantic spirit of revenge.

There is,
of course,
no truth in this.

He gives at full length a theatrical program seventeen or eighteen hundred years old,
which he professes
to have found in the ruins of the Coliseum,
among the dirt and mold and rubbish.

It is a sufficient comment upon this statement
to remark that even a cast-iron program would not have lasted so long under such circumstances.

In Greece he plainly betrays both fright and flight upon one occasion,
but
with frozen effrontery puts the latter in this falsely tamed form:

"We SIDLED toward the Piraeus. "

"Sidled," indeed!

He does not hesitate
to intimate that at Ephesus,
when his mule strayed from the proper course,
he got down,
took him under his arm,
carried him
to the road again,
pointed him right,
remounted,
and went
to sleep contentedly till it was time
to restore the beast
to the path once more.

He states that a growing youth among his ship's passengers was in the constant habit of appeasing his hunger
with soap and oakum between meals.

In Palestine he tells of ants that came eleven miles
to spend the summer in the desert and brought their provisions
with them;
yet he shows by his description of the country that the feat was an impossibility.

He mentions,
as if it were the most commonplace of matters,
that he cut a Moslem in two in broad daylight in Jerusalem,

with Godfrey de Bouillon's sword,
and would have shed more blood IF HE HAD HAD A GRAVEYARD OF HIS OWN.

These statements are unworthy a moment's attention.

Mr. Twain or any other foreigner who did such a thing in Jerusalem would be mobbed,
and would infallibly lose his life.

But why go on?

Why repeat more of his audacious and exasperating falsehoods?

Let us close fittingly
with this one:

he affirms that "in the mosque of St.

Sophia at Constantinople I got my feet so stuck up
with a complication of gums,
slime,
and general impurity,
that I wore out more than two thousand pair of bootjacks getting my boots off that night,
and even then some Christian hide peeled off
with them. "

It is monstrous.

Such statements are simply lies--there is no other name
for them.

Will the reader longer marvel at the brutal ignorance that pervades the American nation when we tell him that we are informed upon perfectly good authority that this extravagant compilation of falsehoods,
this exhaustless mine of stupendous lies,
this INNOCENTS ABROAD,
has actually been adopted by the schools and colleges of several of the states as a text-book!
But if his falsehoods are distressing,
his innocence and his ignorance are enough
to make one burn the book and despise the author.

In one place he was so appalled at the sudden spectacle of a murdered man,
unveiled by the moonlight,
that he jumped out of the window,
going through sash and all,
and then remarks
with the most childlike simplicity that he "was not scared,
but was considerably agitated. "

It puts us out of patience
to note that the simpleton is densely unconscious that Lucrezia Borgia ever existed off the stage.

He is vulgarly ignorant of all foreign languages,
but is frank enough
to criticize,
the Italians' use of their own tongue.

He says they spell the name of their great painter "Vinci,
but pronounce it Vinchy"-- and then adds
with a na:ivet'e possible only
to helpless ignorance,
"foreigners always spell better than they pronounce. "

In another place he commits the bald absurdity of putting the phrase "tare an ouns" in
to an Italian's mouth.

In Rome he unhesitatingly believes the legend that St.

Philip Neri's heart was so inflamed
with divine love that it burst his ribs--believes it wholly because an author
with a learned list of university degrees strung after his name endorses it--"otherwise," says this gentle idiot,
"I should have felt a curiosity
to know what Philip had
for dinner. "

Our author makes a long,
fatiguing journey
to the Grot
to del Cane on purpose
to test its poisoning powers on a dog--got elaborately ready
for the experiment,
and then discovered that he had no dog.

A wiser person would have kept such a thing discreetly
to himself,
but
with this harmless creature everything comes out.

He hurts his foot in a rut two thousand years old in exhumed Pompeii,
and presently,
when staring at one of the cinder-like corpses unearthed in the next square,
conceives the idea that maybe it is the remains of the ancient Street Commissioner,
and straightway his horror softens down
to a sort of chirpy contentment
with the condition of things.

In Damascus he visits the well of Ananias,
three thousand years old,
and is as surprised and delighted as a child
to find that the water is "as pure and fresh as if the well had been dug yesterday. "

In the Holy Land he gags desperately at the hard Arabic and Hebrew Biblical names,
and finally concludes
to call them Baldwinsville,
Williamsburgh,
and so on,
"
for convenience of spelling. "


We have thus spoken freely of this man's stupefying simplicity and innocence,
but we cannot deal similarly
with his colossal ignorance.

We do not know where
to begin.

And if we knew where
to begin,
we certainly would not know where
to leave off.

We will give one specimen,
and one only.

He did not know,
until he got
to Rome,
that Michael Angelo was dead!

And then,
instead of crawling away and hiding his shameful ignorance somewhere,
he proceeds
to express a pious,
grateful sort of satisfaction that he is gone and out of his troubles!
No,
the reader may seek out the author's exhibition of his uncultivation
for himself.

The book is absolutely dangerous,
considering the magnitude and variety of its misstatements,
and the convincing confidence
with which they are made.

And yet it is a text-book in the schools of America. The poor blunderer mouses among the sublime creations of the Old Masters,
trying
to acquire the elegant proficiency in art-knowledge,
which he has a groping sort of comprehension is a proper thing
for a traveled man
to be able
to display.

But what is the manner of his study?

And what is the progress he achieves?


to what extent does he familiarize himself
with the great pictures of Italy,
and what degree of appreciation does he arrive at?

Read:
"When we see a monk going about
with a lion and looking up in
to heaven,
we know that that is St.

Mark.

When we see a monk
with a book and a pen,
looking tranquilly up
to heaven,
trying
to think of a word,
we know that that is St.

Matthew.

When we see a monk sitting on a rock,
looking tranquilly up
to heaven,

with a human skull beside him,
and without other baggage,
we know that that is St.

Jerome.

Because we know that he always went flying light in the matter of baggage.

When we see other monks looking tranquilly up
to heaven,
but having no trade-mark,
we always ask who those parties are.

We do this because we humbly wish
to learn. "


He then enumerates the thousands and thousand of copies of these several pictures which he has seen,
and adds
with accustomed simplicity that he feels encouraged
to believe that when he has seen "Some More" of each,
and had a larger experience,
he will eventually "begin
to take an absorbing interest in them"--the vulgar boor. That we have shown this
to be a remarkable book,
we think no one will deny.

That is a pernicious book
to place in the hands of the confiding and uniformed,
we think we have also shown.

That the book is a deliberate and wicked creation of a diseased mind,
is apparent upon every page.

Having placed our judgment thus upon record,
let us close
with what charity we can,
by remarking that even in this volume there is some good
to be found;

for whenever the author talks of his own country and lets Europe alone,
he never fails
to make himself interesting,
and not only interesting but instructive.

No one can read without benefit his occasional chapters and paragraphs,
about life in the gold and silver mines of California and Nevada;
about the Indians of the plains and deserts of the West,
and their cannibalism;
about the raising of vegetables in kegs of gunpowder by the aid of two or three teaspoons of guano;
about the moving of small arms from place
to place at night in wheelbarrows
to avoid taxes;
and about a sort of cows and mules in the Humboldt mines,
that climb down chimneys and disturb the people at night.

These matters are not only new,
but are well worth knowing.

It is a pity the author did not put in more of the same kind.

His book is well written and is exceedingly entertaining,
and so it just barely escaped being quite valuable also.

(One month later)
Latterly I have received several letters,
and see a number of newspaper paragraphs,
all upon a certain subject,
and all of about the same tenor.

I here give honest specimens.

One is from a New York paper,
one is from a letter from an old friend,
and one is from a letter from a New York publisher who is a stranger
to me.

I humbly endeavor
to make these bits toothsome
with the remark that the article they are praising (which appeared in the December GALAXY,
and PRETENDED
to be a criticism from the London SATURDAY REVIEW on my INNOCENTS ABROAD) WAS WRITTEN BY MYSELF,
EVERY LINE OF IT:
The HERALD says the richest thing out is the "serious critique" in the London SATURDAY REVIEW,
on Mark Twain's INNOCENTS ABROAD.

We thought before we read it that it must be "serious," as everybody said so,
and were even ready
to shed a few tears;
but since perusing it,
we are bound
to confess that next
to Mark Twain's "Jumping Frog" it's the finest bit of humor and sarcasm that we've come across in many a day.

(I do not get a compliment like that every day. )
I used
to think that your writings were pretty good,
but after reading the criticism in THE GALAXY from the LONDON REVIEW,
have discovered what an ass I must have been.

If suggestions are in order,
mine is,
that you put that article in your next edition of the INNOCENTS,
as an extra chapter,
if you are not afraid
to put your own humor in competition
with it.

It is as rich a thing as I ever read.

(Which is strong commendation from a book publisher. )
The London Reviewer,
my friend,
is not the stupid,
"serious" creature he pretends
to be,
_I_ think;
but,
on the contrary,
has a keep appreciation and enjoyment of your book.

As I read his article in THE GALAXY,
I could imagine him giving vent
to many a hearty laugh.

But he is writing
for Catholics and Established Church people,
and high-toned,
antiquated,
conservative gentility,
whom it is a delight
to him
to help you shock,
while he pretends
to shake his head
with owlish density.

He is a magnificent humorist himself.

(Now that is graceful and handsome.

I take off my hat
to my life-long friend and comrade,
and
with my feet together and my fingers spread over my heart,
I say,
in the language of Alabama,
"You do me proud. "

)
I stand guilty of the authorship of the article,
but I did not mean any harm.

I saw by an item in the Boston ADVERTISER that a solemn,
serious critique on the English edition of my book had appeared in the London SATURDAY REVIEW,
and the idea of SUCH a literary breakfast by a stolid,
ponderous British ogre of the quill was too much
for a naturally weak virtue,
and I went home and burlesqued it-- reveled in it,
I may say.

I never saw a copy of the real SATURDAY REVIEW criticism until after my burlesque was written and mailed
to the printer.

But when I did get hold of a copy,
I found it
to be vulgar,
awkwardly written,
ill-natured,
and entirely serious and in earnest.

The gentleman who wrote the newspaper paragraph above quoted had not been misled as
to its character. If any man doubts my word now,
I will kill him.

No,
I will not kill him;
I will win his money.

I will bet him twenty
to one,
and let any New York publisher hold the stakes,
that the statements I have above made as
to the authorship of the article in question are entirely true.

Perhaps I may get wealthy at this,

for I am willing
to take all the bets that offer;
and if a man wants larger odds,
I will give him all he requires.

But he ought
to find out whether I am betting on what is termed "a sure thing" or not before he ventures his money,
and he can do that by going
to a public library and examining the London SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th,
which contains the real critique. Bless me,
some people thought that _I_ was the "sold" person!
P. S. --I cannot resist the temptation
to toss in this most savory thing of all--this easy,
graceful,
philosophical disquisition,

with his happy,
chirping confidence.

It is from the Cincinnati ENQUIRER:
Nothing is more uncertain than the value of a fine cigar.

Nine smokers out of ten would prefer an ordinary domestic article,
three
for a quarter,

to fifty-cent Partaga,
if kept in ignorance of the cost of the latter.

The flavor of the Partaga is too delicate
for palates that have been accustomed
to Connecticut seed leaf.

So it is
with humor.

The finer it is in quality,
the more danger of its not being recognized at all.

Even Mark Twain has been taken in by an English review of his INNOCENTS ABROAD.

Mark Twain is by no means a coarse humorist,
but the Englishman's humor is so much finer than his,
that he mistakes it
for solid earnest,
and "lafts most consumedly. "


A man who cannot learn stands in his own light.

Hereafter,
when I write an article which I know
to be good,
but which I may have reason
to fear will not,
in some quarters,
be considered
to amount
to much,
coming from an American,
I will aver that an Englishman wrote it and that it is copied from a London journal.

And then I will occupy a back seat and enjoy the cordial applause.

(Still later)
Mark Twain at last sees that the SATURDAY REVIEW'S criticism of his INNOCENTS ABROAD was not serious,
and he is intensely mortified at the thought of having been so badly sold.

He takes the only course left him,
and in the last GALAXY claims that HE wrote the criticism himself,
and published it in THE GALAXY
to sell the public.

This is ingenious,
but unfortunately it is not true.

If any of our readers will take the trouble
to call at this office we sill show them the original article in the SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th,
which,
on comparison,
will be found
to be identical
with the one published in THE GALAXY.

The best thing
for Mark
to do will be
to admit that he was sold,
and say no more about it.

The above is from the Cincinnati ENQUIRER,
and is a falsehood.

Come
to the proof.

If the ENQUIRER people,
through any agent,
will produce at THE GALAXY office a London SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th,
containing an "article which,
on comparison,
will be found
to be identical
with the one published in THE GALAXY,
I will pay
to that agent five hundred dollars cash.

Moreover,
if at any specified time I fail
to produce at the same place a copy of the London SATURDAY REVIEW of October 8th,
containing a lengthy criticism upon the INNOCENTS ABROAD,
entirely different,
in every paragraph and sentence,
from the one I published in THE GALAXY,
I will pay
to the ENQUIRER agent another five hundred dollars cash.

I offer Sheldon & Co. ,
publishers,
500 Broadway,
New York,
as my "backers. "

Any one in New York,
authorized by the ENQUIRER,
will receive prompt attention.

It is an easy and profitable way
for the ENQUIRER people
to prove that they have not uttered a pitiful,
deliberate falsehood in the above paragraphs.

Will they swallow that falsehood ignominiously,
or will they send an agent
to THE GALAXY office.

I think the Cincinnati ENQUIRER must be edited by children.

***
A LETTER
TO THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY
Riverdale-on-the-Hudson,
OCTOBER 15,
1902. THE HON.

THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY,
WASHINGTON,
D.

C. :
Sir,--Prices
for the customary kinds of winter fuel having reached an altitude which puts them out of the reach of literary persons in straitened circumstances,
I desire
to place
with you the following order:
Forty-five tons best old dry government bonds,
suitable
for furnace,
gold 7 per cents. ,
1864,
preferred. Twelve tons early greenbacks,
range size,
suitable
for cooking. Eight barrels seasoned 25 and 50 cent postal currency,
vintage of 1866,
eligible
for kindlings. Please deliver
with all convenient despatch at my house in Riverdale at lowest rates
for spot cash,
and send bill to
Your obliged servant,
Mark Twain,
Who will be very grateful,
and will vote right.

***
AMENDED OBITUARIES

TO THE EDITOR:
Sir,--I am approaching seventy;
it is in sight;
it is only three years away.

Necessarily,
I must go soon.

It is but matter-of-course wisdom,
then,
that I should begin
to set my worldly house in order now,
so that it may be done calmly and
with thoroughness,
in place of waiting until the last day,
when,
as we have often seen,
the attempt
to set both houses in order at the same time has been marred by the necessity
for haste and by the confusion and waste of time arising from the inability of the notary and the ecclesiastic
to work together harmoniously,
taking turn about and giving each other friendly assistance--not perhaps in fielding,
which could hardly be expected,
but at least in the minor offices of keeping game and umpiring;
by consequence of which conflict of interests and absence of harmonious action a draw has frequently resulted where this ill-fortune could not have happened if the houses had been set in order one at a time and hurry avoided by beginning in season,
and giving
to each the amount of time fairly and justly proper
to it. In setting my earthly house in order I find it of moment that I should attend in person
to one or two matters which men in my position have long had the habit of leaving wholly
to others,

with consequences often most regrettable.

I wish
to speak of only one of these matters at this time:

Obituaries.

Of necessity,
an Obituary is a thing which cannot be so judiciously edited by any hand as by that of the subject of it.

In such a work it is not the Facts that are of chief importance,
but the light which the obituarist shall throw upon them,
the meaning which he shall dress them in,
the conclusions which he shall draw from them,
and the judgments which he shall deliver upon them.

The Verdicts,
you understand:

that is the danger-line. In considering this matter,
in view of my approaching change,
it has seemed
to me wise
to take such measures as may be feasible,

to acquire,
by courtesy of the press,
access
to my standing obituaries,

with the privilege--if this is not asking too much--of editing,
not their Facts,
but their Verdicts.

This,
not
for the present profit,
further than as concerns my family,
but as a favorable influence usable on the Other Side,
where there are some who are not friendly
to me.
with this explanation of my motives,
I will now ask you of your courtesy
to make an appeal
for me
to the public press.

It is my desire that such journals and periodicals as have obituaries of me lying in their pigeonholes,

with a view
to sudden use some day,
will not wait longer,
but will publish them now,
and kindly send me a marked copy.

My address is simply New York City--I have no other that is permanent and not transient. I will correct them--not the Facts,
but the Verdicts--striking out such clauses as could have a deleterious influence on the Other Side,
and replacing them
with clauses of a more judicious character.

I should,
of course,
expect
to pay double rates
for both the omissions and the substitutions;
and I should also expect
to pay quadruple rates
for all obituaries which proved
to be rightly and wisely worded in the originals,
thus requiring no emendations at all. It is my desire
to leave these Amended Obituaries neatly bound behind me as a perennial consolation and entertainment
to my family,
and as an heirloom which shall have a mournful but definite commercial value
for my remote posterity. I beg,
sir,
that you will insert this Advertisement (1t-eow,
agate,
inside),
and send the bill to
Yours very respectfully. Mark Twain.

P. S. --
for the best Obituary--one suitable
for me
to read in public,
and calculated
to inspire regret--I desire
to offer a Prize,
consisting of a Portrait of me done entirely by myself in pen and ink without previous instructions.

The ink warranted
to be the kind used by the very best artists.

***
A MONUMENT
TO ADAM
Some one has revealed
to the TRIBUNE that I once suggested
to Rev.

Thomas K.

Beecher,
of Elmira,
New York,
that we get up a monument
to Adam,
and that Mr. Beecher favored the project.

There is more
to it than that.

The matter started as a joke,
but it came somewhat near
to materializing. It is long ago--thirty years.

Mr. Darwin's DESCENT OF MAN has been in print five or six years,
and the storm of indignation raised by it was still raging in pulpits and periodicals.

In tracing the genesis of the human race back
to its sources,
Mr. Darwin had left Adam out altogether.

We had monkeys,
and "missing links," and plenty of other kinds of ancestors,
but no Adam.

Jesting
with Mr. Beecher and other friends in Elmira,
I said there seemed
to be a likelihood that the world would discard Adam and accept the monkey,
and that in the course of time Adam's very name would be forgotten in the earth;
therefore this calamity ought
to be averted;
a monument would accomplish this,
and Elmira ought not
to waste this honorable opportunity
to do Adam a favor and herself a credit. Then the unexpected happened.

Two bankers came forward and took hold of the matter--not
for fun,
not
for sentiment,
but because they saw in the monument certain commercial advantages
for the town.

The project had seemed gently humorous before--it was more than that now,

with this stern business gravity injected in
to it.

The bankers discussed the monument
with me.

We met several times.

They proposed an indestructible memorial,

to cost twenty-five thousand dollars.

The insane oddity of a monument set up in a village
to preserve a name that would outlast the hills and the rocks without any such help,
would advertise Elmira
to the ends of the earth-- and draw custom.

It would be the only monument on the planet
to Adam,
and in the matter of interest and impressiveness could never have a rival until somebody should set up a monument
to the Milky Way. People would come from every corner of the globe and stop off
to look at it,
no tour of the world would be complete that left out Adam's monument.

Elmira would be a Mecca;
there would be pilgrim ships at pilgrim rates,
pilgrim specials on the continent's railways;
libraries would be written about the monument,
every tourist would kodak it,
models of it would be
for sale everywhere in the earth,
its form would become as familiar as the figure of Napoleon. One of the bankers subscribed five thousand dollars,
and I think the other one subscribed half as much,
but I do not remember
with certainty now whether that was the figure or not.

We got designs made-- some of them came from Paris. In the beginning--as a detail of the project when it was yet a joke-- I had framed a humble and beseeching and perfervid petition
to Congress begging the government
to built the monument,
as a testimony of the Great Republic's gratitude
to the Father of the Human Race and as a token of her loyalty
to him in this dark day of humiliation when his older children were doubting and deserting him.

It seemed
to me that this petition ought
to be presented,
now--it would be widely and feelingly abused and ridiculed and cursed,
and would advertise our scheme and make our ground-floor stock go off briskly.

So I sent it
to General Joseph R.

Hawley,
who was then in the House,
and he said he would present it.

But he did not do it.

I think he explained that when he came
to read it he was afraid of it:

it was too serious,

to gushy,
too sentimental--the House might take it
for earnest. We ought
to have carried out our monument scheme;
we could have managed it without any great difficulty,
and Elmira would now be the most celebrated town in the universe. Very recently I began
to build a book in which one of the minor characters touches incidentally upon a project
for a monument
to Adam,
and now the TRIBUNE has come upon a trace of the forgotten jest of thirty years ago.

Apparently mental telegraphy is still in business.

It is odd;
but the freaks of mental telegraphy are usually odd.

***
A HUMANE WORD FROM SATAN
[The following letter,
signed by Satan and purporting
to come from him,
we have reason
to believe was not written by him,
but by Mark Twain. -- Editor. ]

TO THE EDITOR OF HARPER'S WEEKLY:
Dear Sir and Kinsman,--Let us have done
with this frivolous talk.

The American Board accepts contributions from me every year:

then why shouldn't it from Mr. Rockefeller?

In all the ages,
three-fourths of the support of the great charities has been conscience-money,
as my books will show:

then what becomes of the sting when that term is applied
to Mr. Rockefeller's gift?

The American Board's trade is financed mainly from the graveyards.

Bequests,
you understand.

Conscience-money.

Confession of an old crime and deliberate perpetration of a new one;

for deceased's contribution is a robbery of his heirs.

Shall the Board decline bequests because they stand
for one of these offenses every time and generally
for both?
Allow me
to continue.

The charge must persistently and resentfully and remorselessly dwelt upon is that Mr. Rockefeller's contribution is incurably tainted by perjury--perjury proved against him in the courts.

IT MAKES US SMILE--down in my place!

Because there isn't a rich man in your vast city who doesn't perjure himself every year before the tax board.

They are all caked
with perjury,
many layers thick.

Iron-clad,
so
to speak.

If there is one that isn't,
I desire
to acquire him
for my museum,
and will pay Dinosaur rates.

Will you say it isn't infraction of the law,
but only annual evasion of it?

Comfort yourselves
with that nice distinction if you like--
FOR THE PRESENT.

But by and by,
when you arrive,
I will show you something interesting:

a whole hell-full of evaders!

Sometimes a frank law-breaker turns up elsewhere,
but I get those others every time.
to return
to my muttons.

I wish you
to remember that my rich perjurers are contributing
to the American Board
with frequency:

it is money filched from the sworn-off personal tax;
therefore it is the wages of sin;
therefore it is my money;
therefore it is _I_ that contribute it;
and,
finally,
it is therefore as I have said:

since the Board daily accepts contributions from me,
why should it decline them from Mr. Rockefeller,
who is as good as I am,
let the courts say what they may?
Satan.

***
INTRODUCTION
TO "THE NEW GUIDE OF THE CONVERSATION IN
PORTUGUESE AND ENGLISH"
by Pedro Carolino
In this world of uncertainties,
there is,
at any rate,
one thing which may be pretty confidently set down as a certainty:

and that is,
that this celebrated little phrase-book will never die while the English language lasts.

Its delicious unconscious ridiculousness,
and its enchanting na:ivet'e,
as are supreme and unapproachable,
in their way,
as are Shakespeare's sublimities.

Whatsoever is perfect in its kind,
in literature,
is imperishable:

nobody can imitate it successfully,
nobody can hope
to produce its fellow;
it is perfect,
it must and will stand alone:

its immortality is secure. It is one of the smallest books in the world,
but few big books have received such wide attention,
and been so much pondered by the grave and learned,
and so much discussed and written about by the thoughtful,
the thoughtless,
the wise,
and the foolish.

Long notices of it have appeared,
from time
to time,
in the great English reviews,
and in erudite and authoritative philological periodicals;
and it has been laughed at,
danced upon,
and tossed in a blanket by nearly every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world.

Every scribbler,
almost,
has had his little fling at it,
at one time or another;
I had mine fifteen years ago.

The book gets out of print,
every now and then,
and one ceases
to hear of it
for a season;
but presently the nations and near and far colonies of our tongue and lineage call
for it once more,
and once more it issues from some London or Continental or American press,
and runs a new course around the globe,
wafted on its way by the wind of a world's laughter. Many persons have believed that this book's miraculous stupidities were studied and disingenuous;
but no one can read the volume carefully through and keep that opinion.

It was written in serious good faith and deep earnestness,
by an honest and upright idiot who believed he knew something of the English language,
and could impart his knowledge
to others.

The amplest proof of this crops out somewhere or other upon each and every page.

There are sentences in the book which could have been manufactured by a man in his right mind,
and
with an intelligent and deliberate purposes
to seem innocently ignorant;
but there are other sentences,
and paragraphs,
which no mere pretended ignorance could ever achieve-- nor yet even the most genuine and comprehensive ignorance,
when unbacked by inspiration. It is not a fraud who speaks in the following paragraph of the author's Preface,
but a good man,
an honest man,
a man whose conscience is at rest,
a man who believes he has done a high and worthy work
for his nation and his generation,
and is well pleased
with his performance:
We expect then,
who the little book (
for the care what we wrote him,
and
for her typographical correction) that may be worth the acceptation of the studious persons,
and especially of the Youth,
at which we dedicate him particularly.

One cannot open this book anywhere and not find richness.


to prove that this is true,
I will open it at random and copy the page I happen
to stumble upon.

Here is the result:


DIALOGUE 16

for
to See the Town
Anothony,
go
to accompany they gentilsmen,
do they see the town. We won't
to see all that is it remarquable here. Come
with me,
if you please.

I shall not folget nothing what can
to merit your attention.

Here we are near
to cathedral;
will you come in there?
We will first
to see him in oudside,
after we shall go in there
for
to look the interior. Admire this master piece gothic architecture's. The chasing of all they figures is astonishing' indeed. The cupola and the nave are not less curious
to see. What is this palace how I see yonder?
It is the town hall. And this tower here at this side?
It is the Observatory. The bridge is very fine,
it have ten arches,
and is constructed of free stone. The streets are very layed out by line and too paved. What is the circuit of this town?
Two leagues. There is it also hospitals here?
It not fail them. What are then the edifices the worthest
to have seen?
It is the arsnehal,
the spectacle's hall,
the Cusiomhouse,
and the Purse. We are going too see the others monuments such that the public pawnbroker's office,
the plants garden's,
the money office's,
the library. That it shall be
for another day;
we are tired.


DIALOGUE 17

to Inform One'self of a Person
How is that gentilman who you did speak by and by?
Is a German. I did think him Englishman. He is of the Saxony side. He speak the french very well. Tough he is German,
he speak so much well italyan,
french,
spanish and english,
that among the Italyans,
they believe him Italyan,
he speak the frenche as the Frenches himselves.

The Spanishesmen believe him Spanishing,
and the Englishes,
Englishman.

It is difficult
to enjoy well so much several languages.

The last remark contains a general truth;
but it ceases
to be a truth when one contracts it and apples it
to an individual--provided that that individual is the author of this book,
Sehnor Pedro Carolino.

I am sure I should not find it difficult "
to enjoy well so much several languages"--or even a thousand of them--if he did the translating
for me from the originals in
to his ostensible English.

***
ADVICE
TO LITTLE GIRLS
Good little girls ought not
to make mouths at their teachers
for every trifling offense.

This retaliation should only be resorted
to under peculiarly aggravated circumstances. If you have nothing but a rag-doll stuffed
with sawdust,
while one of your more fortunate little playmates has a costly China one,
you should treat her
with a show of kindness nevertheless.

And you ought not
to attempt
to make a forcible swap
with her unless your conscience would justify you in it,
and you know you are able
to do it. You ought never
to take your little brother's "chewing-gum" away from him by main force;
it is better
to rope him in
with the promise of the first two dollars and a half you find floating down the river on a grindstone.

In the artless simplicity natural
to this time of life,
he will regard it as a perfectly fair transaction.

In all ages of the world this eminently plausible fiction has lured the obtuse infant
to financial ruin and disaster. If at any time you find it necessary
to correct your brother,
do not correct him
with mud--never,
on any account,
throw mud at him,
because it will spoil his clothes.

It is better
to scald him a little,

for then you obtain desirable results.

You secure his immediate attention
to the lessons you are inculcating,
and at the same time your hot water will have a tendency
to move impurities from his person,
and possibly the skin,
in spots. If your mother tells you
to do a thing,
it is wrong
to reply that you won't.

It is better and more becoming
to intimate that you will do as she bids you,
and then afterward act quietly in the matter according
to the dictates of your best judgment. You should ever bear in mind that it is
to your kind parents that you are indebted
for your food,
and
for the privilege of staying home from school when you let on that you are sick.

Therefore you ought
to respect their little prejudices,
and humor their little whims,
and put up
with their little foibles until they get
to crowding you too much. Good little girls always show marked deference
for the aged.

You ought never
to "sass" old people unless they "sass" you first.

***
POST-MORTEM POETRY [1]
In Philadelphia they have a custom which it would be pleasant
to see adopted throughout the land.

It is that of appending
to published death-notices a little verse or two of comforting poetry.

Any one who is in the habit of reading the daily Philadelphia LEDGER must frequently be touched by these plaintive tributes
to extinguished worth.

In Philadelphia,
the departure of a child is a circumstance which is not more surely followed by a burial than by the accustomed solacing poesy in the PUBLIC LEDGER.

In that city death loses half its terror because the knowledge of its presence comes thus disguised in the sweet drapery of verse.


for instance,
in a late LEDGER I find the following (I change the surname):
DIED
Hawks. --On the 17th inst. ,
Clara,
the daughter of Ephraim and Laura Hawks,
aged 21 months and 2 days.

That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are around my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop upon my cheek,
These lips are sealed
to me. Dear Lord,
how could I give Clara up

to any but
to Thee?
A child thus mourned could not die wholly discontented.

From the LEDGER of the same date I make the following extract,
merely changing the surname,
as before:
Becket. --On Sunday morning,
19th inst. ,
John P. ,
infant son of George and Julia Becket,
aged 1 year,
6 months,
and 15 days.

That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are round my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop upon my cheek;
These lips are sealed
to me. Dear Lord,
how could I give Johnnie up

to any but
to Thee?
The similarity of the emotions as produced in the mourners in these two instances is remarkably evidenced by the singular similarity of thought which they experienced,
and the surprising coincidence of language used by them
to give it expression. In the same journal,
of the same date,
I find the following (surname suppressed,
as before):
Wagner. --On the 10th inst. ,
Ferguson G. ,
the son of William L.

and Martha Theresa Wagner,
aged 4 weeks and 1 day.

That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are round my neck,
No feet upon my knee;
No kisses drop upon my cheek,
These lips are sealed
to me. Dear Lord,
how could I give Ferguson up

to any but
to Thee?
It is strange what power the reiteration of an essentially poetical thought has upon one's feelings.

When we take up the LEDGER and read the poetry about little Clara,
we feel an unaccountable depression of the spirits.

When we drift further down the column and read the poetry about little Johnnie,
the depression and spirits acquires and added emphasis,
and we experience tangible suffering.

When we saunter along down the column further still and read the poetry about little Ferguson,
the word torture but vaguely suggests the anguish that rends us. In the LEDGER (same copy referred
to above) I find the following (I alter surname,
as usual):
Welch. --On the 5th inst. ,
Mary C.

Welch,
wife of William B.

Welch,
and daughter of Catharine and George W.

Markland,
in the 29th year of her age.

A mother dear,
a mother kind,
Has gone and left us all behind. Cease
to weep,

for tears are vain,
Mother dear is out of pain.

Farewell,
husband,
children dear,
Serve thy God
with filial fear,
And meet me in the land above,
Where all is peace,
and joy,
and love.

What could be sweeter than that?

No collection of salient facts (without reduction
to tabular form) could be more succinctly stated than is done in the first stanza by the surviving relatives,
and no more concise and comprehensive program of farewells,
post-mortuary general orders,
etc. ,
could be framed in any form than is done in verse by deceased in the last stanza.

These things insensibly make us wiser and tenderer,
and better.

Another extract:
Ball. --On the morning of the 15th inst. ,
Mary E. ,
daughter of John and Sarah F.

Ball.

'Tis sweet
to rest in lively hope
That when my change shall come
Angels will hover round my bed,

to waft my spirit home.

The following is apparently the customary form
for heads of families:
Burns. --On the 20th inst. ,
Michael Burns,
aged 40 years.

Dearest father,
thou hast left us,
Hear thy loss we deeply feel;
But 'tis God that has bereft us,
He can all our sorrows heal.

Funeral at 2 o'clock sharp.

There is something very simple and pleasant about the following,
which,
in Philadelphia,
seems
to be the usual form
for consumptives of long standing.

(It deplores four distinct cases in the single copy of the LEDGER which lies on the Memoranda editorial table):
Bromley. --On the 29th inst. ,
of consumption,
Philip Bromley,
in the 50th year of his age.

Affliction sore long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain--
Till God at last did hear him mourn,
And eased him of his pain.

That friend whom death from us has torn,
We did not think so soon
to part;
An anxious care now sinks the thorn
Still deeper in our bleeding heart.

This beautiful creation loses nothing by repetition.

On the contrary,
the oftener one sees it in the LEDGER,
the more grand and awe-inspiring it seeMs.
with one more extract I will close:
Doble. --On the 4th inst. ,
Samuel Pervil Worthington Doble,
aged 4 days.

Our little Sammy's gone,
His tiny spirit's fled;
Our little boy we loved so dear
Lies sleeping
with the dead.

A tear within a father's eye,
A mother's aching heart,
Can only tell the agony
How hard it is
to part.

Could anything be more plaintive than that,
without requiring further concessions of grammar?

Could anything be likely
to do more toward reconciling deceased
to circumstances,
and making him willing
to go?

Perhaps not.

The power of song can hardly be estimated.

There is an element about some poetry which is able
to make even physical suffering and death cheerful things
to contemplate and consummations
to be desired.

This element is present in the mortuary poetry of Philadelphia degree of development. The custom I have been treating of is one that should be adopted in all the cities of the land. It is said that once a man of small consequence died,
and the Rev.

T.

K.

Beecher was asked
to preach the funeral sermon-- a man who abhors the lauding of people,
either dead or alive,
except in dignified and simple language,
and then only
for merits which they actually possessed or possess,
not merits which they merely ought
to have possessed.

The friends of the deceased got up a stately funeral.

They must have had misgivings that the corpse might not be praised strongly enough,

for they prepared some manuscript headings and notes in which nothing was left unsaid on that subject that a fervid imagination and an unabridged dictionary could compile,
and these they handed
to the minister as he entered the pulpit.

They were merely intended as suggestions,
and so the friends were filled
with consternation when the minister stood in the pulpit and proceeded
to read off the curious odds and ends in ghastly detail and in a loud voice!

And their consternation solidified
to petrification when he paused at the end,
contemplated the multitude reflectively,
and then said,
impressively:
"The man would be a fool who tried
to add anything
to that.

Let us pray!"
And
with the same strict adhesion
to truth it can be said that the man would be a fool who tried
to add anything
to the following transcendent obituary poem.

There is something so innocent,
so guileless,
so complacent,
so unearthly serene and self-satisfied about this peerless "hog-wash," that the man must be made of stone who can read it without a dulcet ecstasy creeping along his backbone and quivering in his marrow.

There is no need
to say that this poem is genuine and in earnest,

for its proofs are written all over its face.

An ingenious scribbler might imitate it after a fashion,
but Shakespeare himself could not counterfeit it.

It is noticeable that the country editor who published it did not know that it was a treasure and the most perfect thing of its kind that the storehouses and museums of literature could show.

He did not dare
to say no
to the dread poet--
for such a poet must have been something of an apparition--but he just shoveled it in
to his paper anywhere that came handy,
and felt ashamed,
and put that disgusted "Published by Request" over it,
and hoped that his subscribers would overlook it or not feel an impulse
to read it:
(Published by Request
LINES
Composed on the death of Samuel and Catharine Belknap's children
by M.

A.

Glaze
Friends and neighbors all draw near,
And listen
to what I have
to say;
And never leave your children dear
When they are small,
and go away.

But always think of that sad fate,
That happened in year of '63;
Four children
with a house did burn,
Think of their awful agony.

Their mother she had gone away,
And left them there alone
to stay;
The house took fire and down did burn;
Before their mother did return.

Their piteous cry the neighbors heard,
And then the cry of fire was given;
But,
ah!

before they could them reach,
Their little spirits had flown
to heaven.

Their father he
to war had gone,
And on the battle-field was slain;
But little did he think when he went away,
But what on earth they would meet again.

The neighbors often told his wife
Not
to leave his children there,
Unless she got some one
to stay,
And of the little ones take care.

The oldest he was years not six,
And the youngest only eleven months old,
But often she had left them there alone,
As,
by the neighbors,
I have been told.

How can she bear
to see the place. Where she so oft has left them there,
Without a single one
to look
to them,
Or of the little ones
to take good care.

Oh,
can she look upon the spot,
Whereunder their little burnt bones lay,
But what she thinks she hears them say,
''Twas God had pity,
and took us on high. '
And there may she kneel down and pray,
And ask God her
to forgive;
And she may lead a different life
While she on earth remains
to live.

Her husband and her children too,
God has took from pain and woe. May she reform and mend her ways,
That she may also
to them go.

And when it is God's holy will,
O,
may she be prepared

to meet her God and friends in peace,
And leave this world of care. - - -
1.

Written in 1870.

***
THE DANGER OF LYING IN BED
The man in the ticket-office said:
"Have an accident insurance ticket,
also?"


"No," I said,
after studying the matter over a little.

"No,
I believe not;
I am going
to be traveling by rail all day today.

However,
tomorrow I don't travel.

Give me one
for tomorrow. "


The man looked puzzled.

He said:
"But it is
for accident insurance,
and if you are goin