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The $30,000 Bequest, by Mark Twain

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                       THE $30,000 BEQUEST
                        and Other Stories

                               by
                           Mark Twain
                       (Samuel L. Clemens)

                       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 Momument 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into earthly futures was for speculation, what she 
put into spiritual futures was for investment; she was willing to 
go into 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 into 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 into 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 
unedurable 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 into "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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 onto 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 unto 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 
into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 abrosial 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 into 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 into 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 into 
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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 
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 into 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 into 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 
into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 
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 into 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 into 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 into 
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 into 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 into 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 into 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 
into the bank, and found Edward Mills there alone.  They 
commanded him to reveal the "combination," so that they could get 
into 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 into 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 into 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:  Transporto      
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 
seduto sopra un barroccio carico di verdura, perse l' equilibrio 
e cadde al suolo, rimanendo con la gamba destra sotto una ruota 
del veicolo.
     Lo Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per 
mezzo della pubblica vettura n. 365, lo transporto 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 voluto espellare uno spettatore che continuava a fumare 
malgrado il diviety, questo spalleggiato 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, spalleggiato 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 into 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" into 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 into 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 into 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 aspettatto 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 herewith tender my history.
     Ours is a noble house, and stretches a long way back into 
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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 into 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 wherewith 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" into 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 Grotto 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 
into 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 
into 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 into 
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 into 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 going to 
travel by rail--"
     "If I am going to travel by rail I sha'n't need it.  Lying 
at home in bed is the thing _I_ am afraid of."
     I had been looking into this matter.  Last year I traveled 
twenty thousand miles, almost entirely by rail; the year before, 
I traveled over twenty-five thousand miles, half by sea and half 
by rail; and the year before that I traveled in the neighborhood 
of ten thousand miles, exclusively by rail.  I suppose if I put 
in all the little odd journeys here and there, I may say I have 
traveled sixty thousand miles during the three years I have 
mentioned.  AND NEVER AN ACCIDENT.
     For a good while I said to myself every morning:  "Now I 
have escaped thus far, and so the chances are just that much 
increased that I shall catch it this time.  I will be shrewd, and 
buy an accident ticket."  And to a dead moral certainty I drew a 
blank, and went to bed that night without a joint started or a 
bone splintered.  I got tired of that sort of daily bother, and 
fell to buying accident tickets that were good for a month.  I 
said to myself, "A man CAN'T buy thirty blanks in one bundle."
     But I was mistaken.  There was never a prize in the the lot.  
I could read of railway accidents every day--the newspaper 
atmosphere was foggy with them; but somehow they never came my 
way.  I found I had spent a good deal of money in the accident 
business, and had nothing to show for it.  My suspicions were 
aroused, and I began to hunt around for somebody that had won in 
this lottery.  I found plenty of people who had invested, but not 
an individual that had ever had an accident or made a cent.  I 
stopped buying accident tickets and went to ciphering.  The 
result was astounding.  THE PERIL LAY NOT IN TRAVELING, BUT IN 
STAYING AT HOME.
     I hunted up statistics, and was amazed to find that after 
all the glaring newspaper headlines concerning railroad 
disasters, less than THREE HUNDRED people had really lost their 
lives by those disasters in the preceding twelve months.  The 
Erie road was set down as the most murderous in the list.  It had 
killed forty-six--or twenty-six, I do not exactly remember which, 
but I know the number was double that of any other road.  But the 
fact straightway suggested itself that the Erie was an immensely 
long road, and did more business than any other line in the 
country; so the double number of killed ceased to be matter for 
surprise.
     By further figuring, it appeared that between New York and 
Rochester the Erie ran eight passenger-trains each way every day 
--16 altogether; and carried a daily average of 6,000 persons.  
That is about a million in six months--the population of New York 
City.  Well, the Erie kills from 13 to 23 persons of ITS million 
in six months; and in the same time 13,000 of New York's million 
die in their beds!  My flesh crept, my hair stood on end.  "This 
is appalling!" I said.  "The danger isn't in traveling by rail, 
but in trusting to those deadly beds.  I will never sleep in a 
bed again."
     I had figured on considerably less than one-half the length 
of the Erie road.  It was plain that the entire road must 
transport at least eleven or twelve thousand people every day.  
There are many short roads running out of Boston that do fully 
half as much; a great many such roads.  There are many roads 
scattered about the Union that do a prodigious passenger 
business.  Therefore it was fair to presume that an average of 
2,500 passengers a day for each road in the country would be 
almost correct.  There are 846 railway lines in our country, and 
846 times 2,500 are 2,115,000.  So the railways of America move 
more than two millions of people every day; six hundred and fifty 
millions of people a year, without counting the Sundays.  They do 
that, too--there is no question about it; though where they get 
the raw material is clear beyond the jurisdiction of my 
arithmetic; for I have hunted the census through and through, and 
I find that there are not that many people in the United States, 
by a matter of six hundred and ten millions at the very least.  
They must use some of the same people over again, likely.
     San Francisco is one-eighth as populous as New York; there 
are 60 deaths a week in the former and 500 a week in the latter--
if they have luck.  That is 3,120 deaths a year in San Francisco, 
and eight times as many in New York--say about 25,000 or 26,000.  
The health of the two places is the same.  So we will let it 
stand as a fair presumption that this will hold good all over the 
country, and that consequently 25,000 out of every million of 
people we have must die every year.  That amounts to one-fortieth 
of our total population.  One million of us, then, die annually.  
Out of this million ten or twelve thousand are stabbed, shot, 
drowned, hanged, poisoned, or meet a similarly violent death in 
some other popular way, such as perishing by kerosene-lamp and 
hoop-skirt conflagrations, getting buried in coal-mines, falling 
off house-tops, breaking through church, or lecture-room floors, 
taking patent medicines, or committing suicide in other forms.  
The Erie railroad kills 23 to 46; the other 845 railroads kill an 
average of one-third of a man each; and the rest of that million, 
amounting in the aggregate to that appalling figure of 987,631 
corpses, die naturally in their beds!
     You will excuse me from taking any more chances on those 
beds.  The railroads are good enough for me.
     And my advice to all people is, Don't stay at home any more 
than you can help; but when you have GOT to stay at home a while, 
buy a package of those insurance tickets and sit up nights.  You 
cannot be too cautious.
     [One can see now why I answered that ticket-agent in the 
manner recorded at the top of this sketch.]
     The moral of this composition is, that thoughtless people 
grumble more than is fair about railroad management in the United 
States.  When we consider that every day and night of the year 
full fourteen thousand railway-trains of various kinds, freighted 
with life and armed with death, go thundering over the land, the 
marvel is, NOT that they kill three hundred human beings in a 
twelvemonth, but that they do not kill three hundred times three 
hundred!


***


                  PORTRAIT OF KING WILLIAM III


     I never can look at those periodical portraits in THE GALAXY 
magazine without feeling a wild, tempestuous ambition to be an 
artist.  I have seen thousands and thousands of pictures in my 
time--acres of them here and leagues of them in the galleries of 
Europe--but never any that moved me as these portraits do.
     There is a portrait of Monsignore Capel in the November 
number, now COULD anything be sweeter than that?  And there was 
Bismarck's, in the October number; who can look at that without 
being purer and stronger and nobler for it?  And Thurlow and 
Weed's picture in the September number; I would not have died 
without seeing that, no, not for anything this world can give.  
But looks back still further and recall my own likeness as 
printed in the August number; if I had been in my grave a 
thousand years when that appeared, I would have got up and 
visited the artist.
     I sleep with all these portraits under my pillow every 
night, so that I can go on studying them as soon as the day dawns 
in the morning.  I know them all as thoroughly as if I had made 
them myself; I know every line and mark about them.  Sometimes 
when company are present I shuffle the portraits all up together, 
and then pick them out one by one and call their names, without 
referring to the printing on the bottom.  I seldom make a mistake 
--never, when I am calm.
     I have had the portraits framed for a long time, waiting 
till my aunt gets everything ready for hanging them up in the 
parlor.  But first one thing and then another interferes, and so 
the thing is delayed.  Once she said they would have more of the 
peculiar kind of light they needed in the attic.  The old 
simpleton! it is as dark as a tomb up there.  But she does not 
know anything about art, and so she has no reverence for it.  
When I showed her my "Map of the Fortifications of Paris," she 
said it was rubbish.
     Well, from nursing those portraits so long, I have come at 
last to have a perfect infatuation for art.  I have a teacher 
now, and my enthusiasm continually and tumultuously grows, as I 
learn to use with more and more facility the pencil, brush, and 
graver.  I am studying under De Mellville, the house and portrait 
painter.  [His name was Smith when he lived in the West.]  He 
does any kind of artist work a body wants, having a genius that 
is universal, like Michael Angelo.  Resembles that great artist, 
in fact.  The back of his head is like this, and he wears his 
hat-brim tilted down on his nose to expose it.
     I have been studying under De Mellville several months now.  
The first month I painted fences, and gave general satisfaction.  
The next month I white-washed a barn.  The third, I was doing tin 
roofs; the forth, common signs; the fifth, statuary to stand 
before cigar shops.  This present month is only the sixth, and I 
am already in portraits!
     The humble offering which accompanies these remarks [see 
figure]--the portrait of his Majesty William III., King of 
Prussia--is my fifth attempt in portraits, and my greatest 
success.  It has received unbounded praise from all classes of 
the community, but that which gratifies me most is the frequent 
and cordial verdict that it resembles the GALAXY portraits.  
Those were my first love, my earliest admiration, the original 
source and incentive of my art-ambition.  Whatever I am in Art 
today, I owe to these portraits.  I ask no credit for myself--I 
deserve none.  And I never take any, either.  Many a stranger has 
come to my exhibition (for I have had my portrait of King William 
on exhibition at one dollar a ticket), and would have gone away 
blessing ME, if I had let him, but I never did.  I always stated 
where I got the idea.
     King William wears large bushy side-whiskers, and some 
critics have thought that this portrait would be more complete if 
they were added.  But it was not possible.  There was not room 
for side-whiskers and epaulets both, and so I let the whiskers 
go, and put in the epaulets, for the sake of style.  That thing 
on his hat is an eagle.  The Prussian eagle--it is a national 
emblem.  When I saw hat I mean helmet; but it seems impossible to 
make a picture of a helmet that a body can have confidence in.
     I wish kind friends everywhere would aid me in my endeavor 
to attract a little attention to the GALAXY portraits.  I feel 
persuaded it can be accomplished, if the course to be pursued be 
chosen with judgment.  I write for that magazine all the time, 
and so do many abler men, and if I can get these portraits into 
universal favor, it is all I ask; the reading-matter will take 
care of itself.

                  COMMENDATIONS OF THE PORTRAIT

     There is nothing like it in the Vatican.          Pius IX.

     It has none of that vagueness, that dreamy spirituality 
about it, which many of the first critics of Arkansas have 
objected to in the Murillo school of Art.               Ruskin.

     The expression is very interesting.           J.W. Titian.

     (Keeps a macaroni store in Venice, at the old family stand.)

     It is the neatest thing in still life I have seen for years.
                                                  Rosa Bonheur.

     The smile may be almost called unique.           Bismarck.

     I never saw such character portrayed in a picture face 
before.                                           De Mellville.

     There is a benignant simplicity about the execution of this 
work which warms the heart toward it as much, full as much, as it 
fascinates the eye.                                   Landseer.

     One cannot see it without longing to contemplate the artist.
                                             Frederick William.

     Send me the entire edition--together with the plate and the 
original portrait--and name your own price.  And--would you like 
to come over and stay awhile with Napoleon at Wilhelmsh:ohe?  It 
shall not cost you a cent.                         William III.


***


                DOES THE RACE OF MAN LOVE A LORD?


     Often a quite assified remark becomes sanctified by use and 
petrified by custom; it is then a permanency, its term of 
activity a geologic period.


     The day after the arrival of Prince Henry I met an English 
friend, and he rubbed his hands and broke out with a remark that 
was charged to the brim with joy--joy that was evidently a 
pleasant salve to an old sore place:
     "Many a time I've had to listen without retort to an old 
saying that is irritatingly true, and until now seemed to offer 
no chance for a return jibe:  'An Englishman does dearly love a 
lord'; but after this I shall talk back, and say, 'How about the 
Americans?'"
     It is a curious thing, the currency that an idiotic saying 
can get.  The man that first says it thinks he has made a 
discovery.  The man he says it to, thinks the same.  It departs 
on its travels, is received everywhere with admiring acceptance, 
and not only as a piece of rare and acute observation, but as 
being exhaustively true and profoundly wise; and so it presently 
takes its place in the world's list of recognized and established 
wisdoms, and after that no one thinks of examining it to see 
whether it is really entitled to its high honors or not.  I call 
to mind instances of this in two well-established proverbs, whose 
dullness is not surpassed by the one about the Englishman  and 
his love for a lord:  one of them records the American's 
Adoration of the Almighty Dollar, the other the American 
millionaire-girl's ambition to trade cash for a title, with a 
husband thrown in.
     It isn't merely the American that adores the Almighty 
Dollar, it is the human race.  The human race has always adored 
the hatful of shells, or the bale of calico, or the half-bushel 
of brass rings, or the handful of steel fish-hooks, or the 
houseful of black wives, or the zareba full of cattle, or the 
two-score camels and asses, or the factory, or the farm, or the 
block of buildings, or the railroad bonds, or the bank stock, or 
the hoarded cash, or--anything that stands for wealth and 
consideration and independence, and can secure to the possessor 
that most precious of all things, another man's envy.  It was a 
dull person that invented the idea that the American's devotion 
to the dollar is more strenuous than another's.
     Rich American girls do buy titles, but they did not invent 
that idea; it had been worn threadbare several hundred centuries 
before America was discovered.  European girls still exploit it 
as briskly as ever; and, when a title is not to be had for the 
money in hand, they buy the husband without it.  They must put up 
the "dot," or there is no trade.  The commercialization of brides 
is substantially universal, except in America.  It exists with 
us, to some little extent, but in no degree approaching a custom.
     "The Englishman dearly loves a lord."
     What is the soul and source of this love?  I think the thing 
could be more correctly worded:
     "The human race dearly envies a lord."
     That is to say, it envies the lord's place.  Why?  On two 
accounts, I think:  its Power and its Conspicuousness.
     Where Conspicuousness carries with it a Power which, by the 
light of our own observation and experience, we are able to 
measure and comprehend, I think our envy of the possessor is as 
deep and as passionate as is that of any other nation.  No one 
can care less for a lord than the backwoodsman, who has had no 
personal contact with lords and has seldom heard them spoken of; 
but I will not allow that any Englishman has a profounder envy of 
a lord than has the average American who has lived long years in 
a European capital and fully learned how immense is the position 
the lord occupies.
     Of any ten thousand Americans who eagerly gather, at vast 
inconvenience, to get a glimpse of Prince Henry, all but a couple 
of hundred will be there out of an immense curiosity; they are 
burning up with desire to see a personage who is so much talked 
about.  They envy him; but it is Conspicuousness they envy 
mainly, not the Power that is lodged in his royal quality and 
position, for they have but a vague and spectral knowledge and 
appreciation of that; though their environment and associations 
they have been accustomed to regard such things lightly, and as 
not being very real; consequently, they are not able to value 
them enough to consumingly envy them.
     But, whenever an American (or other human being) is in the 
presence, for the first time, of a combination of great Power and 
Conspicuousness which he thoroughly understands and appreciates, 
his eager curiosity and pleasure will be well-sodden with that 
other passion--envy--whether he suspects it or not.  At any time, 
on any day, in any part of America, you can confer a happiness 
upon any passing stranger by calling his attention to any other 
passing stranger and saying:
     "Do you see that gentleman going along there?  It is Mr. 
Rockefeller."
     Watch his eye.  It is a combination of power and 
conspicuousness which the man understands.
     When we understand rank, we always like to rub against it.  
When a man is conspicuous, we always want to see him.  Also, if 
he will pay us an attention we will manage to remember it.  Also, 
we will mention it now and then, casually; sometimes to a friend, 
or if a friend is not handy, we will make out with a stranger.
     Well, then, what is rank, and what is conspicuousness?  At 
once we think of kings and aristocracies, and of world-wide 
celebrities in soldierships, the arts, letters, etc., and we stop 
there.  But that is a mistake.  Rank holds its court and receives 
its homage on every round of the ladder, from the emperor down to 
the rat-catcher; and distinction, also, exists on every round of 
the ladder, and commands its due of deference and envy.
     To worship rank and distinction is the dear and valued 
privilege of all the human race, and it is freely and joyfully 
exercised in democracies as well as in monarchies--and even, to 
some extent, among those creatures whom we impertinently call the 
Lower Animals.  For even they have some poor little vanities and 
foibles, though in this matter they are paupers as compared to 
us.
     A Chinese Emperor has the worship of his four hundred 
millions of subjects, but the rest of the world is indifferent to 
him.  A Christian Emperor has the worship of his subjects and of 
a large part of the Christian world outside of his domains; but 
he is a matter of indifference to all China.  A king, class A, 
has an extensive worship; a king, class B, has a less extensive 
worship; class C, class D, class E get a steadily diminishing 
share of worship; class L (Sultan of Zanzibar), class P (Sultan 
of Sulu), and class W (half-king of Samoa), get no worship at all 
outside their own little patch of sovereignty.
     Take the distinguished people along down.  Each has his 
group of homage-payers.  In the navy, there are many groups; they 
start with the Secretary and the Admiral, and go down to the 
quartermaster--and below; for there will be groups among the 
sailors, and each of these groups will have a tar who is 
distinguished for his battles, or his strength, or his daring, or 
his profanity, and is admired and envied by his group.  The same 
with the army; the same with the literary and journalistic craft; 
the publishing craft; the cod-fishery craft; Standard Oil; U. S. 
Steel; the class A hotel--and the rest of the alphabet in that 
line; the class A prize-fighter--and the rest of the alphabet in 
his line--clear down to the lowest and obscurest six-boy gang of 
little gamins, with its one boy that can thrash the rest, and to 
whom he is king of Samoa, bottom of the royal race, but looked up 
to with a most ardent admiration and envy.
     There is something pathetic, and funny, and pretty, about 
this human race's fondness for contact with power and 
distinction, and for the reflected glory it gets out of it.  The 
king, class A, is happy in the state banquet and the military 
show which the emperor provides for him, and he goes home and 
gathers the queen and the princelings around him in the privacy 
of the spare room, and tells them all about it, and says:
     "His Imperial Majesty put his hand upon my shoulder in the 
most friendly way--just as friendly and familiar, oh, you can't 
imagine it!--and everybody SEEING him do it; charming, perfectly 
charming!"
     The king, class G, is happy in the cold collation and the 
police parade provided for him by the king, class B, and goes 
home and tells the family all about it, and says:
     "And His Majesty took me into his own private cabinet for a 
smoke and a chat, and there we sat just as sociable, and talking 
away and laughing and chatting, just the same as if we had been 
born in the same bunk; and all the servants in the anteroom could 
see us doing it!  Oh, it was too lovely for anything!"
     The king, class Q, is happy in the modest entertainment 
furnished him by the king, class M, and goes home and tells the 
household about it, and is as grateful and joyful over it as were 
his predecessors in the gaudier attentions that had fallen to 
their larger lot.
     Emperors, kings, artisans, peasants, big people, little 
people--at the bottom we are all alike and all the same; all just 
alike on the inside, and when our clothes are off, nobody can 
tell which of us is which.  We are unanimous in the pride we take 
in good and genuine compliments paid us, and distinctions 
conferred upon us, in attentions shown.  There is not one of us, 
from the emperor down,, but is made like that.  Do I mean 
attentions shown us by the guest?  No, I mean simply flattering 
attentions, let them come whence they may.  We despise no source 
that can pay us a pleasing attention--there is no source that is 
humble enough for that.  You have heard a dear little girl say to 
a frowzy and disreputable dog:  "He came right to me and let me 
pat him on the head, and he wouldn't let the others touch him!" 
and you have seen her eyes dance with pride in that high 
distinction.  You have often seen that.  If the child were a 
princess, would that random dog be able to confer the like glory 
upon her with his pretty compliment?  Yes; and even in her mature 
life and seated upon a throne, she would still remember it, still 
recall it, still speak of it with frank satisfaction.  That 
charming and lovable German princess and poet, Carmen Sylva, 
Queen of Roumania, remembers yet that the flowers of the woods 
and fields "talked to her" when she was a girl, and she sets it 
down in her latest book; and that the squirrels conferred upon 
her and her father the valued compliment of not being afraid of 
them; and "once one of them, holding a nut between its sharp 
little teeth, ran right up against my father"--it has the very 
note of "He came right to me and let me pat him on the head"--
"and when it saw itself reflected in his boot it was very much 
surprised, and stopped for a long time to contemplate itself in 
the polished leather"--then it went its way.  And the birds! she 
still remembers with pride that "they came boldly into my room," 
when she had neglected her "duty" and put no food on the window-
sill for them; she knew all the wild birds, and forgets the royal 
crown on her head to remember with pride that they knew her; also 
that the wasp and the bee were personal friends of hers, and 
never forgot that gracious relationship to her injury:  "never 
have I been stung by a wasp or a bee."  And here is that proud 
note again that sings in that little child's elation in being 
singled out, among all the company of children, for the random 
dog's honor-conferring attentions.  "Even in the very worst 
summer for wasps, when, in lunching out of doors, our table was 
covered with them and every one else was stung, they never hurt 
me."
     When a queen whose qualities of mind and heart and character 
are able to add distinction to so distinguished a place as a 
throne, remembers with grateful exultation, after thirty years, 
honors and distinctions conferred upon her by the humble, wild 
creatures of the forest, we are helped to realize that 
complimentary attentions, homage, distinctions, are of no caste, 
but are above all cast--that they are a nobility-conferring power 
apart.
     We all like these things.  When the gate-guard at the 
railway-station passes me through unchallenged and examines other 
people's tickets, I feel as the king, class A, felt when the 
emperor put the imperial hand on his shoulder, "everybody seeing 
him do it"; and as the child felt when the random dog allowed her 
to pat his head and ostracized the others; and as the princess 
felt when the wasps spared her and stung the rest; and I felt 
just so, four years ago in Vienna (and remember it yet), when the 
helmeted police shut me off, with fifty others, from a street 
which the Emperor was to pass through, and the captain of the 
squad turned and saw the situation and said indignantly to that 
guard:
     "Can't you see it is the Herr Mark Twain?  Let him through!"
     It was four years ago; but it will be four hundred before I 
forget the wind of self-complacency that rose in me, and strained 
my buttons when I marked the deference for me evoked in the faces 
of my fellow-rabble, and noted, mingled with it, a puzzled and 
resentful expression which said, as plainly as speech could have 
worded it:  "And who in the nation is the Herr Mark Twain UM 
GOTTESWILLEN?"
     How many times in your life have you heard this boastful 
remark:
     "I stood as close to him as I am to you; I could have put 
out my hand and touched him."
     We have all heard it many and many a time.  It was a proud 
distinction to be able to say those words.  It brought envy to 
the speaker, a kind of glory; and he basked in it and was happy 
through all his veins.  And who was it he stood so close to?  The 
answer would cover all the grades.  Sometimes it was a king; 
sometimes it was a renowned highwayman; sometimes it was an 
unknown man killed in an extraordinary way and made suddenly 
famous by it; always it was a person who was for the moment the 
subject of public interest of a village.
     "I was there, and I saw it myself."  That is a common and 
envy-compelling remark.  It can refer to a battle; to a handing; 
to a coronation; to the killing of Jumbo by the railway-train; to 
the arrival of Jenny Lind at the Battery; to the meeting of the 
President and Prince Henry; to the chase of a murderous maniac; 
to the disaster in the tunnel; to the explosion in the subway; to 
a remarkable dog-fight; to a village church struck by lightning.  
It will be said, more or less causally, by everybody in America 
who has seen Prince Henry do anything, or try to.  The man who 
was absent and didn't see him to anything, will scoff.  It is his 
privilege; and he can make capital out of it, too; he will seem, 
even to himself, to be different from other Americans, and 
better.  As his opinion of his superior Americanism grows, and 
swells, and concentrates and coagulates, he will go further and 
try to belittle the distinction of those that saw the Prince do 
things, and will spoil their pleasure in it if he can.  My life 
has been embittered by that kind of persons.  If you are able to 
tell of a special distinction that has fallen to your lot, it 
gravels them; they cannot bear it; and they try to make believe 
that the thing you took for a special distinction was nothing of 
the kind and was meant in quite another way.  Once I was received 
in private audience by an emperor.  Last week I was telling a 
jealous person about it, and I could see him wince under it, see 
him bite, see him suffer.  I revealed the whole episode to him 
with considerable elaboration and nice attention to detail.  When 
I was through, he asked me what had impressed me most.  I said:
     "His Majesty's delicacy.  They told me to be sure and back 
out from the presence, and find the door-knob as best I could; it 
was not allowable to face around.  Now the Emperor knew it would 
be a difficult ordeal for me, because of lack of practice; and 
so, when it was time to part, he turned, with exceeding delicacy, 
and pretended to fumble with things on his desk, so I could get 
out in my own way, without his seeing me."
     It went home!  It was vitriol!  I saw the envy and 
disgruntlement rise in the man's face; he couldn't keep it down.  
I saw him try to fix up something in his mind to take the bloom 
off that distinction.  I enjoyed that, for I judged that he had 
his work cut out for him.  He struggled along inwardly for quite 
a while; then he said, with a manner of a person who has to say 
something and hasn't anything relevant to say:
     "You said he had a handful of special-brand cigars on the 
table?"
     "Yes; _I_ never said anything to match them."
     I had him again.  He had to fumble around in his mind as 
much as another minute before he could play; then he said in as 
mean a way as I ever heard a person say anything:
     "He could have been counting the cigars, you know."
     I cannot endure a man like that.  It is nothing to him how 
unkind he is, so long as he takes the bloom off.  It is all he 
cares for.
     "An Englishman (or other human being) does dearly love a 
lord," (or other conspicuous person.)  It includes us all.  We 
love to be noticed by the conspicuous person; we love to be 
associated with such, or with a conspicuous event, even in a 
seventh-rate fashion, even in the forty-seventh, if we cannot do 
better.  This accounts for some of our curious tastes in 
mementos.  It accounts for the large private trade in the Prince 
of Wales's hair, which chambermaids were able to drive in that 
article of commerce when the Prince made the tour of the world in 
the long ago--hair which probably did not always come from his 
brush, since enough of it was marketed to refurnish a bald comet; 
it accounts for the fact that the rope which lynches a negro in 
the presence of ten thousand Christian spectators is salable five 
minutes later at two dollars and inch; it accounts for the 
mournful fact that a royal personage does not venture to wear 
buttons on his coat in public.
     We do love a lord--and by that term I mean any person whose 
situation is higher than our own.  The lord of the group, for 
instance:  a group of peers, a group of millionaires, a group of 
hoodlums, a group of sailors, a group of newsboys, a group of 
saloon politicians, a group of college girls.  No royal person 
has ever been the object of a more delirious loyalty and slavish 
adoration than is paid by the vast Tammany herd to its squalid 
idol in Wantage.  There is not a bifucated animal in that 
menagerie that would not be proud to appear in a newspaper 
picture in his company.  At the same time, there are some in that 
organization who would scoff at the people who have been daily 
pictured in company with Prince Henry, and would say vigorously 
that THEY would not consent to be photographed with him--a 
statement which would not be true in any instance.  There are 
hundreds of people in America who would frankly say to you that 
they would not be proud to be photographed in a group with the 
Prince, if invited; and some of these unthinking people would 
believe it when they said it; yet in no instance would it be 
true.  We have a large population, but we have not a large enough 
one, by several millions, to furnish that man.  He has not yet 
been begotten, and in fact he is not begettable.
     You may take any of the printed groups, and there isn't a 
person in the dim background who isn't visibly trying to be 
vivid; if it is a crowd of ten thousand--ten thousand proud, 
untamed democrats, horny-handed sons of toil and of politics, and 
fliers of the eagle--there isn't one who is trying to keep out of 
range, there isn't one who isn't plainly meditating a purchase of 
the paper in the morning, with the intention of hunting himself 
out in the picture and of framing and keeping it if he shall find 
so much of his person in it as his starboard ear.
     We all love to get some of the drippings of Conspicuousness, 
and we will put up with a single, humble drip, if we can't get 
any more.  We may pretend otherwise, in conversation; but we 
can't pretend it to ourselves privately--and we don't.  We do 
confess in public that we are the noblest work of God, being 
moved to it by long habit, and teaching, and superstition; but 
deep down in the secret places of our souls we recognize that, if 
we ARE the noblest work, the less said about it the better.
     We of the North poke fun at the South for its fondness of 
titles--a fondness for titles pure and simple, regardless of 
whether they are genuine or pinchbeck.  We forget that whatever a 
Southerner likes the rest of the human race likes, and that there 
is no law of predilection lodged in one people that is absent 
from another people.  There is no variety in the human race.  We 
are all children, all children of the one Adam, and we love toys.  
We can soon acquire that Southern disease if some one will give 
it a start.  It already has a start, in fact.  I have been 
personally acquainted with over eighty-four thousand persons who, 
at one time or another in their lives, have served for a year or 
two on the staffs of our multitudinous governors, and through 
that fatality have been generals temporarily, and colonels 
temporarily, and judge-advocates temporarily; but I have known 
only nine among them who could be hired to let the title go when 
it ceased to be legitimate.  I know thousands and thousands of 
governors who ceased to be governors away back in the last 
century; but I am acquainted with only three who would answer 
your letter if you failed to call them "Governor" in it.  I know 
acres and acres of men who have done time in a legislature in 
prehistoric days, but among them is not half an acre whose 
resentment you would not raise if you addressed them as "Mr." 
instead of "Hon."  The first thing a legislature does is to 
convene in an impressive legislative attitude, and get itself 
photographed.  Each member frames his copy and takes it to the 
woods and hangs it up in the most aggressively conspicuous place 
in his house; and if you visit the house and fail to inquire what 
that accumulation is, the conversation will be brought around to 
it by that aforetime legislator, and he will show you a figure in 
it which in the course of years he has almost obliterated with 
the smut of his finger-marks, and say with a solemn joy, "It's 
me!"
     Have you ever seen a country Congressman enter the hotel 
breakfast-room in Washington with his letters?--and sit at his 
table and let on to read them?--and wrinkle his brows and frown 
statesman-like?--keeping a furtive watch-out over his glasses all 
the while to see if he is being observed and admired?--those same 
old letters which he fetches in every morning?  Have you seen it?  
Have you seen him show off?  It is THE sight of the national 
capital.  Except one; a pathetic one.  That is the ex-
Congressman:  the poor fellow whose life has been ruined by a 
two-year taste of glory and of fictitious consequence; who has 
been superseded, and ought to take his heartbreak home and hide 
it, but cannot tear himself away from the scene of his lost 
little grandeur; and so he lingers, and still lingers, year after 
year, unconsidered, sometimes snubbed, ashamed of his fallen 
estate, and valiantly trying to look otherwise; dreary and 
depressed, but counterfeiting breeziness and gaiety, hailing with 
chummy familiarity, which is not always welcomed, the more-
fortunes who are still in place and were once his mates.  Have 
you seen him?  He clings piteously to the one little shred that 
is left of his departed distinction--the "privilege of the 
floor"; and works it hard and gets what he can out of it.  That 
is the saddest figure I know of.
     Yes, we do so love our little distinctions!  And then we 
loftily scoff at a Prince for enjoying his larger ones; 
forgetting that if we only had his chance--ah!  "Senator" is not 
a legitimate title.  A Senator has no more right to be addressed 
by it than have you or I; but, in the several state capitals and 
in Washington, there are five thousand Senators who take very 
kindly to that fiction, and who purr gratefully when you call 
them by it--which you may do quite unrebuked.  Then those same 
Senators smile at the self-constructed majors and generals and 
judges of the South!
     Indeed, we do love our distinctions, get them how we may.  
And we work them for all they are worth.  In prayer we call 
ourselves "worms of the dust," but it is only on a sort of tacit 
understanding that the remark shall not be taken at par.  WE--
worms of the dust!  Oh, no, we are not that.  Except in fact; and 
we do not deal much in fact when we are contemplating ourselves.
     As a race, we do certainly love a lord--let him be Croker, 
or a duke, or a prize-fighter, or whatever other personage shall 
chance to be the head of our group.  Many years ago, I saw a 
greasy youth in overalls standing by the HERALD office, with an 
expectant look in his face.  Soon a large man passed out, and 
gave him a pat on the shoulder.  That was what the boy was 
waiting for--the large man's notice.  The pat made him proud and 
happy, and the exultation inside of him shone out through his 
eyes; and his mates were there to see the pat and envy it and 
wish they could have that glory.  The boy belonged down cellar in 
the press-room, the large man was king of the upper floors, 
foreman of the composing-room.  The light in the boy's face was 
worship, the foreman was his lord, head of his group.  The pat 
was an accolade.  It was as precious to the boy as it would have 
been if he had been an aristocrat's son and the accolade had been 
delivered by his sovereign with a sword.  The quintessence of the 
honor was all there; there was no difference in values; in truth 
there was no difference present except an artificial one--
clothes.
     All the human race loves a lord--that is, loves to look upon 
or be noticed by the possessor of Power or Conspicuousness; and 
sometimes animals, born to better things and higher ideals, 
descend to man's level in this matter.  In the Jardin des Plantes 
I have see a cat that was so vain of being the personal friend of 
an elephant that I was ashamed of her.


***


                   EXTRACTS FROM ADAM'S DIARY


     MONDAY.--This new creature with the long hair is a good deal 
in the way.  It is always hanging around and following me about.  
I don't like this; I am not used to company.  I wish it would 
stay with the other animals. . . .  Cloudy today, wind in the 
east; think we shall have rain. . . .  WE?  Where did I get that 
word--the new creature uses it.
     TUESDAY.--Been examining the great waterfall.  It is the 
finest thing on the estate, I think.  The new creature calls it 
Niagara Falls--why, I am sure I do not know.  Says it LOOKS like 
Niagara Falls.  That is not a reason, it is mere waywardness and 
imbecility.  I get no chance to name anything myself.  The new 
creature names everything that comes along, before I can get in a 
protest.  And always that same pretext is offered--it LOOKS like 
the thing.  There is a dodo, for instance.  Says the moment one 
looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks like a dodo."  It 
will have to keep that name, no doubt.  It wearies me to fret 
about it, and it does no good, anyway.  Dodo!  It looks no more 
like a dodo than I do.
     WEDNESDAY.--Built me a shelter against the rain, but could 
not have it to myself in peace.  The new creature intruded.  When 
I tried to put it out it shed water out of the holes it looks 
with, and wiped it away with the back of its paws, and made a 
noise such as some of the other animals make when they are in 
distress.  I wish it would not talk; it is always talking.  That 
sounds like a cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur; but I do 
not mean it so.  I have never heard the human voice before, and 
any new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the solemn 
hush of these dreaming solitudes offends my ear and seems a false 
note.  And this new sound is so close to me; it is right at my 
shoulder, right at my ear, first on one side and then on the 
other, and I am used only to sounds that are more or less distant 
from me.
     FRIDAY.  The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything 
I can do.  I had a very good name for the estate, and it was 
musical and pretty--GARDEN OF EDEN.  Privately, I continue to 
call it that, but not any longer publicly.  The new creature says 
it is all woods and rocks and scenery, and therefore has no 
resemblance to a garden.  Says it LOOKS like a park, and does not 
look like anything BUT a park.  Consequently, without consulting 
me, it has been new-named NIAGARA FALLS PARK.  This is 
sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me.  And already there is a 
sign up:

                            KEEP OFF

                            THE GRASS

     My life is not as happy as it was.
     SATURDAY.--The new creature eats too much fruit.  We are 
going to run short, most likely.  "We" again--that is ITS word; 
mine, too, now, from hearing it so much.  Good deal of fog this 
morning.  I do not go out in the fog myself.  This new creature 
does.  It goes out in all weathers, and stumps right in with its 
muddy feet.  And talks.  It used to be so pleasant and quiet 
here.
     SUNDAY.--Pulled through.  This day is getting to be more and 
more trying.  It was selected and set apart last November as a 
day of rest.  I had already six of them per week before.  This 
morning found the new creature trying to clod apples out of that 
forbidden tree.
     MONDAY.--The new creature says its name is Eve.  That is all 
right, I have no objections.  Says it is to call it by, when I 
want it to come.  I said it was superfluous, then.  The word 
evidently raised me in its respect; and indeed it is a large, 
good word and will bear repetition.  It says it is not an It, it 
is a She.  This is probably doubtful; yet it is all one to me; 
what she is were nothing to me if she would but go by herself and 
not talk.
     TUESDAY.--She has littered the whole estate with execrable 
names and offensive signs:

                    This way to the Whirlpool

                     This way to Goat Island

                   Cave of the Winds this way

     She says this park would make a tidy summer resort if there 
was any custom for it.  Summer resort--another invention of hers 
--just words, without any meaning.  What is a summer resort?  But 
it is best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining.
     FRIDAY.--She has taken to beseeching me to stop going over 
the Falls.  What harm does it do?  Says it makes her shudder.  I 
wonder why; I have always done it--always liked the plunge, and 
coolness.  I supposed it was what the Falls were for.  They have 
no other use that I can see, and they must have been made for 
something.  She says they were only made for scenery--like the 
rhinoceros and the mastodon.
     I went over the Falls in a barrel--not satisfactory to her.  
Went over in a tub--still not satisfactory.  Swam the Whirlpool 
and the Rapids in a fig-leaf suit.  It got much damaged.  Hence, 
tedious complaints about my extravagance.  I am too much hampered 
here.  What I need is a change of scene.
     SATURDAY.--I escaped last Tuesday night, and traveled two 
days, and built me another shelter in a secluded place, and 
obliterated my tracks as well as I could, but she hunted me out 
by means of a beast which she has tamed and calls a wolf, and 
came making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that water out 
of the places she looks with.  I was obliged to return with her, 
but will presently emigrate again when occasion offers.  She 
engages herself in many foolish things; among others; to study 
out why the animals called lions and tigers live on grass and 
flowers, when, as she says, the sort of teeth they wear would 
indicate that they were intended to eat each other.  This is 
foolish, because to do that would be to kill each other, and that 
would introduce what, as I understand, is called "death"; and 
death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the Park.  Which 
is a pity, on some accounts.
     SUNDAY.--Pulled through.
     MONDAY.--I believe I see what the week is for:  it is to 
give time to rest up from the weariness of Sunday.  It seems a 
good idea. . . .  She has been climbing that tree again.  Clodded 
her out of it.  She said nobody was looking.  Seems to consider 
that a sufficient justification for chancing any dangerous thing.  
Told her that.  The word justification moved her admiration--and 
envy, too, I thought.  It is a good word.
     TUESDAY.--She told me she was made out of a rib taken from 
my body.  This is at least doubtful, if not more than that.  I 
have not missed any rib. . . .  She is in much trouble about the 
buzzard; says grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't 
raise it; thinks it was intended to live on decayed flesh.  The 
buzzard must get along the best it can with what is provided.  We 
cannot overturn the whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.
     SATURDAY.--She fell in the pond yesterday when she was 
looking at herself in it, which she is always doing.  She nearly 
strangled, and said it was most uncomfortable.  This made her 
sorry for the creatures which live in there, which she calls 
fish, for she continues to fasten names on to things that don't 
need them and don't come when they are called by them, which is a 
matter of no consequence to her, she is such a numbskull, anyway; 
so she got a lot of them out and brought them in last night and 
put them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed them now and 
then all day and I don't see that they are any happier there then 
they were before, only quieter.  When night comes I shall throw 
them outdoors.  I will not sleep with them again, for I find them 
clammy and unpleasant to lie among when a person hasn't anything 
on.
     SUNDAY.--Pulled through.
     TUESDAY.--She has taken up with a snake now.  The other 
animals are glad, for she was always experimenting with them and 
bothering them; and I am glad because the snake talks, and this 
enables me to get a rest.
     FRIDAY.--She says the snake advises her to try the fruit of 
the tree, and says the result will be a great and fine and noble 
education.  I told her there would be another result, too--it 
would introduce death into the world.  That was a mistake--it had 
been better to keep the remark to myself; it only gave her an 
idea--she could save the sick buzzard, and furnish fresh meat to 
the despondent lions and tigers.  I advised her to keep away from 
the tree.  She said she wouldn't.  I foresee trouble.  Will 
emigrate.
     WEDNESDAY.--I have had a variegated time.  I escaped last 
night, and rode a horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping 
to get clear of the Park and hide in some other country before 
the trouble should begin; but it was not to be.  About an hour 
after sun-up, as I was riding through a flowery plain where 
thousands of animals were grazing, slumbering, or playing with 
each other, according to their wont, all of a sudden they broke 
into a tempest of frightful noises, and in one moment the plain 
was a frantic commotion and every beast was destroying its 
neighbor.  I knew what it meant--Eve had eaten that fruit, and 
death was come into the world. . . .  The tigers ate my house, 
paying no attention when I ordered them to desist, and they would 
have eaten me if I had stayed--which I didn't, but went away in 
much haste. . . .  I found this place, outside the Park, and was 
fairly comfortable for a few days, but she has found me out.  
Found me out, and has named the place Tonawanda--says it LOOKS 
like that.  In fact I was not sorry she came, for there are but 
meager pickings here, and she brought some of those apples.  I 
was obliged to eat them, I was so hungry.  It was against my 
principles, but I find that principles have no real force except 
when one is well fed. . . .  She came curtained in boughs and 
bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what she meant by such 
nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down, she 
tittered and blushed.  I had never seen a person titter and blush 
before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic.  She said I 
would soon know how it was myself.  This was correct.  Hungry as 
I was, I laid down the apple half-eaten--certainly the best one I 
ever saw, considering the lateness of the season--and arrayed 
myself in the discarded boughs and branches, and then spoke to 
her with some severity and ordered her to go and get some more 
and not make a spectacle or herself.  She did it, and after this 
we crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and 
collected some skins, and I made her patch together a couple of 
suits proper for public occasions.  They are uncomfortable, it is 
true, but stylish, and that is the main point about clothes. . . 
.  I find she is a good deal of a companion.  I see I should be 
lonesome and depressed without her, now that I have lost my 
property.  Another thing, she says it is ordered that we work for 
our living hereafter.  She will be useful.  I will superintend.
     TEN DAYS LATER.--She accuses ME of being the cause of our 
disaster!  She says, with apparent sincerity and truth, that the 
Serpent assured her that the forbidden fruit was not apples, it 
was chestnuts.  I said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten 
any chestnuts.  She said the Serpent informed her that "chestnut" 
was a figurative term meaning an aged and moldy joke.  I turned 
pale at that, for I have made many jokes to pass the weary time, 
and some of them could have been of that sort, though I had 
honestly supposed that they were new when I made them.  She asked 
me if I had made one just at the time of the catastrophe.  I was 
obliged to admit that I had made one to myself, though not aloud.  
It was this.  I was thinking about the Falls, and I said to 
myself, "How wonderful it is to see that vast body of water 
tumble down there!"  Then in an instant a bright thought flashed 
into my head, and I let it fly, saying, "It would be a deal more 
wonderful to see it tumble UP there!"--and I was just about to 
kill myself with laughing at it when all nature broke loose in 
war and death and I had to flee for my life.  "There," she said, 
with triumph, "that is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very 
jest, and called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval 
with the creation."  Alas, I am indeed to blame.  Would that I 
were not witty; oh, that I had never had that radiant thought!
     NEXT YEAR.--We have named it Cain.  She caught it while I 
was up country trapping on the North Shore of the Erie; caught it 
in the timber a couple of miles from our dug-out--or it might 
have been four, she isn't certain which.  It resembles us in some 
ways, and may be a relation.  That is what she thinks, but this 
is an error, in my judgment.  The difference in size warrants the  
conclusion that it is a different and new kind of animal--a fish, 
perhaps, though when I put it in the water to see, it sank, and 
she plunged in and snatched it out before there was opportunity 
for the experiment to determine the matter.  I still think it is 
a fish, but she is indifferent about what it is, and will not let 
me have it to try.  I do not understand this.  The coming of the 
creature seems to have changed her whole nature and made her 
unreasonable about experiments.  She thinks more of it than she 
does of any of the other animals, but is not able to explain why.  
Her mind is disordered--everything shows it.  Sometimes she 
carries the fish in her arms half the night when it complains and 
wants to get to the water.  At such times the water comes out of 
the places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats the 
fish on the back and makes soft sounds with her mouth to soothe 
it, and betrays sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways.  I have 
never seen her do like this with any other fish, and it troubles 
me greatly.  She used to carry the young tigers around so, and 
play with them, before we lost our property, but it was only 
play; she never took on about them like this when their dinner 
disagreed with them.
     SUNDAY.--She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies around all 
tired out, and likes to have the fish wallow over her; and she 
makes fool noises to amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and 
that makes it laugh.  I have not seen a fish before that could 
laugh.  This makes me doubt. . . .  I have come to like Sunday 
myself.  Superintending all the week tires a body so.  There 
ought to be more Sundays.  In the old days they were tough, but 
now they come handy.
     WEDNESDAY.--It isn't a fish.  I cannot quite make out what 
it is.  It makes curious devilish noises when not satisfied, and 
says "goo-goo" when it is.  It is not one of us, for it doesn't 
walk; it is not a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for 
it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for it doesn't crawl; I feel 
sure it is not a fish, though I cannot get a chance to find out 
whether it can swim or not.  It merely lies around, and mostly on 
its back, with its feet up.  I have not seen any other animal do 
that before.  I said I believed it was an enigma; but she only 
admired the word without understanding it.  In my judgment it is 
either an enigma or some king of a bug.  If it dies, I will take 
it apart and see what its arrangements are.  I never had a thing 
perplex me so.
     THREE MONTHS LATER.--The perplexity augments instead of 
diminishing.  I sleep but little.  It has ceased from lying 
around, and goes about on its four legs now.  Yet it differs from 
the other four legged animals, in that its front legs are 
unusually short, consequently this causes the main part of its 
person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and this is not 
attractive.  It is built much as we are, but its method of 
traveling shows that it is not of our breed.  The short front 
legs and long hind ones indicate that it is a of the kangaroo 
family, but it is a marked variation of that species, since the 
true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never does.  Still it is a 
curious and interesting variety, and has not been catalogued 
before.  As I discovered it, I have felt justified in securing 
the credit of the discovery by attaching my name to it, and hence 
have called it KANGAROORUM ADAMIENSIS. . . .  It must have been a 
young one when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since.  It 
must be five times as big, now, as it was then, and when 
discontented it is able to make from twenty-two to thirty-eight 
times the noise it made at first.  Coercion does not modify this, 
but has the contrary effect.  For this reason I discontinued the 
system.  She reconciles it by persuasion, and by giving it things 
which she had previously told me she wouldn't give it.  As 
already observed, I was not at home when it first came, and she 
told me she found it in the woods.  It seems odd that it should 
be the only one, yet it must be so, for I have worn myself out 
these many weeks trying to find another one to add to my 
collection, and for this to play with; for surely then it would 
be quieter and we could tame it more easily.  But I find none, 
nor any vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks.  It has 
to live on the ground, it cannot help itself; therefore, how does 
it get about without leaving a track?  I have set a dozen traps, 
but they do no good.  I catch all small animals except that one; 
animals that merely go into the trap out of curiosity, I think, 
to see what the milk is there for.  They never drink it.
     THREE MONTHS LATER.--The Kangaroo still continues to grow, 
which is very strange and perplexing.  I never knew one to be so 
long getting its growth.  It has fur on its head now; not like 
kangaroo fur, but exactly like our hair except that it is much 
finer and softer, and instead of being black is red.  I am like 
to lose my mind over the capricious and harassing developments of 
this unclassifiable zoological freak.  If I could catch another 
one--but that is hopeless; it is a new variety, and the only 
sample; this is plain.  But I caught a true kangaroo and brought 
it in, thinking that this one, being lonesome, would rather have 
that for company than have no kin at all, or any animal it could 
feel a nearness to or get sympathy from in its forlorn condition 
here among strangers who do not know its ways or habits, or what 
to do to make it feel that it is among friends; but it was a 
mistake--it went into such fits at the sight of the kangaroo that 
I was convinced it had never seen one before.  I pity the poor 
noisy little animal, but there is nothing I can do to make it 
happy.  If I could tame it--but that is out of the question; the 
more I try the worse I seem to make it.  It grieves me to the 
heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and passion.  I 
wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't hear of it.  That seemed 
cruel and not like her; and yet she may be right.  It might be 
lonelier than ever; for since I cannot find another one, how 
could IT?
     FIVE MONTHS LATER.--It is not a kangaroo.  No, for it 
supports itself by holding to her finger, and thus goes a few 
steps on its hind legs, and then falls down.  It is probably some 
kind of a bear; and yet it has no tail--as yet--and no fur, 
except upon its head.  It still keeps on growing--that is a 
curious circumstance, for bears get their growth earlier than 
this.  Bears are dangerous--since our catastrophe--and I shall 
not be satisfied to have this one prowling about the place much 
longer without a muzzle on.  I have offered to get her a kangaroo 
if she would let this one go, but it did no good--she is 
determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks, I think.  
She was not like this before she lost her mind.
     A FORTNIGHT LATER.--I examined its mouth.  There is no 
danger yet:  it has only one tooth.  It has no tail yet.  It 
makes more noise now than it ever did before--and mainly at 
night.  I have moved out.  But I shall go over, mornings, to 
breakfast, and see if it has more teeth.  If it gets a mouthful 
of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or no tail, for a 
bear does not need a tail in order to be dangerous.
     FOUR MONTHS LATER.--I have been off hunting and fishing a 
month, up in the region that she calls Buffalo; I don't know why, 
unless it is because there are not any buffaloes there.  Meantime 
the bear has learned to paddle around all by itself on its hind 
legs, and says "poppa" and "momma."  It is certainly a new 
species.  This resemblance to words may be purely accidental, of 
course, and may have no purpose or meaning; but even in that case 
it is still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other bear can 
do.  This imitation of speech, taken together with general 
absence of fur and entire absence of tail, sufficiently indicates 
that this is a new kind of bear.  The further study of it will be 
exceedingly interesting.  Meantime I will go off on a far 
expedition among the forests of the north and make an exhaustive 
search.  There must certainly be another one somewhere, and this 
one will be less dangerous when it has company of its own 
species.  I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one 
first.
     THREE MONTHS LATER.--It has been a weary, weary hunt, yet I 
have had no success.  In the mean time, without stirring from the 
home estate, she has caught another one!  I never saw such luck.  
I might have hunted these woods a hundred years, I never would 
have run across that thing.
     NEXT DAY.--I have been comparing the new one with the old 
one, and it is perfectly plain that they are of the same breed.  
I was going to stuff one of them for my collection, but she is 
prejudiced against it for some reason or other; so I have 
relinquished the idea, though I think it is a mistake.  It would 
be an irreparable loss to science if they should get away.  The 
old one is tamer than it was and can laugh and talk like a 
parrot, having learned this, no doubt, from being with the parrot 
so much, and having the imitative faculty in a high developed  
degree.  I shall be astonished if it turns out to be a new kind 
of parrot; and yet I ought not to be astonished, for it has 
already been everything else it could think of since those first 
days when it was a fish.  The new one is as ugly as the old one 
was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat complexion and 
the same singular head without any fur on it.  She calls it Abel.
     TEN YEARS LATER.--They are BOYS; we found it out long ago.  
It was their coming in that small immature shape that puzzled us; 
we were not used to it.  There are some girls now.  Abel is a 
good boy, but if Cain had stayed a bear it would have improved 
him.  After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve 
in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with 
her than inside it without her.  At first I thought she talked 
too much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice fall 
silent and pass out of my life.  Blessed be the chestnut that 
brought us near together and taught me to know the goodness of 
her heart and the sweetness of her spirit!


***


                           EVE'S DIARY

                  Translated from the Original


     SATURDAY.--I am almost a whole day old, now.  I arrived 
yesterday.  That is as it seems to me.  And it must be so, for if 
there was a day-before-yesterday I was not there when it 
happened, or I should remember it.  It could be, of course, that 
it did happen, and that I was not noticing.  Very well; I will be 
very watchful now, and if any day-before-yesterdays happen I will 
make a note of it.  It will be best to start right and not let 
the record get confused, for some instinct tells me that these 
details are going to be important to the historian some day.  For 
I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it 
would be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment 
than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what 
I AM--an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
     Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it?  No, I 
think not; I think the rest of it is part of it.  I am the main 
part of it, but I think the rest of it has its share in the 
matter.  Is my position assured, or do I have to watch it and 
take care of it?  The latter, perhaps.  Some instinct tells me 
that eternal vigilance is the price of supremacy.  [That is a 
good phrase, I think, for one so young.]
     Everything looks better today than it did yesterday.  In the 
rush of finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a 
ragged condition, and some of the plains were so cluttered with 
rubbish and remnants that the aspects were quite distressing.  
Noble and beautiful works of art should not be subjected to 
haste; and this majestic new world is indeed a most noble and 
beautiful work.  And certainly marvelously near to being perfect, 
notwithstanding the shortness of the time.  There are too many 
stars in some places and not enough in others, but that can be 
remedied presently, no doubt.  The moon got loose last night, and 
slid down and fell out of the scheme--a very great loss; it 
breaks my heart to think of it.  There isn't another thing among 
the ornaments and decorations that is comparable to it for beauty 
and finish.  It should have been fastened better.  If we can only 
get it back again--
     But of course there is no telling where it went to.  And 
besides, whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would 
do it myself.  I believe I can be honest in all other matters, 
but I already begin to realize that the core and center of my 
nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and 
that it would not be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged 
to another person and that person didn't know I had it.  I could 
give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I should be 
afraid some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I am 
sure I should find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything 
about it.  For I do love moons, they are so pretty and so 
romantic.  I wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I 
should never get tired lying on the moss-bank and looking up at 
them.
     Stars are good, too.  I wish I could get some to put in my 
hair.  But I suppose I never can.  You would be surprised to find 
how far off they are, for they do not look it.  When they first 
showed, last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but 
it didn't reach, which astonished me; then I tried clods till I 
was all tired out, but I never got one.  It was because I am 
left-handed and cannot throw good.  Even when I aimed at the one 
I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one, though I did make 
some close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right 
into the midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just 
barely missing them, and if I could have held out a little longer 
maybe I could have got one.
     So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one 
of my age, and after I was rested I got a basket and started for 
a place on the extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were 
close to the ground and I could get them with my hands, which 
would be better, anyway, because I could gather them tenderly 
then, and not break them.  But it was farther than I thought, and 
at last I had go give it up; I was so tired I couldn't drag my 
feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt me very 
much.
     I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; 
but I found some tigers and nestled in among them and was most 
adorably comfortable, and their breath was sweet and pleasant, 
because they live on strawberries.  I had never seen a tiger 
before, but I knew them in a minute by the stripes.  If I could 
have one of those skins, it would make a lovely gown.
     Today I am getting better ideas about distances.  I was so 
eager to get hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed 
for it, sometimes when it was too far off, and sometimes when it 
was but six inches away but seemed a foot--alas, with thorns 
between!  I learned a lesson; also I made an axiom, all out of my 
own head--my very first one;  THE SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE 
THORN.  I think it is a very good one for one so young.
     I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, 
at a distance, to see what it might be for, if I could.  But I 
was not able to make out.  I think it is a man.  I had never seen 
a man, but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what 
it is.  I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about 
any of the other reptiles.  If it is a reptile, and I suppose it 
is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like a 
reptile.  It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it 
stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is 
a reptile, though it may be architecture.
     I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time 
it turned around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by 
and by I found it was only trying to get away, so after that I 
was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours, 
about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy.  At 
last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree.  I waited a 
good while, then gave it up and went home.
     Today the same thing over.  I've got it up the tree again.
     SUNDAY.--It is up there yet.  Resting, apparently.  But that 
is a subterfuge:  Sunday isn't the day of rest; Saturday is 
appointed for that.  It looks to me like a creature that is more 
interested in resting than it anything else.  It would tire me to 
rest so much.  It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree.  
I do wonder what it is for; I never see it do anything.
     They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy!  I 
think it is very honest of them.  It slid down and fell off 
again, but I was not distressed; there is no need to worry when 
one has that kind of neighbors; they will fetch it back.  I wish 
I could do something to show my appreciation.  I would like to 
send them some stars, for we have more than we can use.  I mean 
I, not we, for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such 
things.
     It has low tastes, and is not kind.  When I went there 
yesterday evening in the gloaming it had crept down and was 
trying to catch the little speckled fishes that play in the pool, 
and I had to clod it to make it go up the tree again and let them 
alone.  I wonder if THAT is what it is for?  Hasn't it any heart?  
Hasn't it any compassion for those little creature?  Can it be 
that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work?  It 
has the look of it.  One of the clods took it back of the ear, 
and it used language.  It gave me a thrill, for it was the first 
time I had ever heard speech, except my own.  I did not 
understand the words, but they seemed expressive.
     When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for 
I love to talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am 
very interesting, but if I had another to talk to I could be 
twice as interesting, and would never stop, if desired.
     If this reptile is a man, it isn't an IT, is it?  That 
wouldn't be grammatical, would it?  I think it would be HE.  I 
think so.  In that case one would parse it thus:  nominative, HE; 
dative, HIM; possessive, HIS'N.  Well, I will consider it a man 
and call it he until it turns out to be something else.  This 
will be handier than having so many uncertainties.
     NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.--All the week I tagged around after him 
and tried to get acquainted.  I had to do the talking, because he 
was shy, but I didn't mind it.  He seemed pleased to have me 
around, and I used the sociable "we" a good deal, because it 
seemed to flatter him to be included.
     WEDNESDAY.--We are getting along very well indeed, now, and 
getting better and better acquainted.  He does not try to avoid 
me any more, which is a good sign, and shows that he likes to 
have me with him.  That pleases me, and I study to be useful to 
him in every way I can, so as to increase his regard.  During the 
last day or two I have taken all the work of naming things off 
his hands, and this has been a great relief to him, for he has no 
gift in that line, and is evidently very grateful.  He can't 
think of a rational name to save him, but I do not let him see 
that I am aware of his defect.  Whenever a new creature comes 
along I name it before he has time to expose himself by an 
awkward silence.  In this way I have saved him many 
embarrassments.  I have no defect like this.  The minute I set 
eyes on an animal I know what it is.  I don't have to reflect a 
moment; the right name comes out instantly, just as if it were an 
inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am sure it wasn't in me 
half a minute before.  I seem to know just by the shape of the 
creature and the way it acts what animal it is.
     When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat--I saw 
it in his eye.  But I saved him.  And I was careful not to do it 
in a way that could hurt his pride.  I just spoke up in a quite 
natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of 
conveying information, and said, "Well, I do declare, if there 
isn't the dodo!"  I explained--without seeming to be explaining--
how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was a 
little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn't, it was 
quite evident that he admired me.  That was very agreeable, and I 
thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept.  
How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have 
earned it!
     THURSDAY.--my first sorrow.  Yesterday he avoided me and 
seemed to wish I would not talk to him.  I could not believe it, 
and thought there was some mistake, for I loved to be with him, 
and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that he could 
feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything?  But at last 
it seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where 
I first saw him the morning that we were made and I did not know 
what he was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a 
mournful place, and every little think spoke of him, and my heart 
was very sore.  I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new 
feeling; I had not experienced it before, and it was all a 
mystery, and I could not make it out.
     But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and 
went to the new shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had 
done that was wrong and how I could mend it and get back his 
kindness again; but he put me out in the rain, and it was my 
first sorrow.
     SUNDAY.--It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but 
those were heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.
     I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn 
to throw straight.  I failed, but I think the good intention 
pleased him.  They are forbidden, and he says I shall come to 
harm; but so I come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I 
care for that harm?
     MONDAY.--This morning I told him my name, hoping it would 
interest him.  But he did not care for it.  It is strange.  If he 
should tell me his name, I would care.  I think it would be 
pleasanter in my ears than any other sound.
     He talks very little.  Perhaps it is because he is not 
bright, and is sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it.  It 
is such a pity that he should feel so, for brightness is nothing; 
it is in the heart that the values lie.  I wish I could make him 
understand that a loving good heart is riches, and riches enough, 
and that without it intellect is poverty.
     Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable 
vocabulary.  This morning he used a surprisingly good word.  He 
evidently recognized, himself, that it was a good one, for he 
worked in in twice afterward, casually.  It was good casual art, 
still it showed that he possesses a certain quality of 
perception.  Without a doubt that seed can be made to grow, if 
cultivated.
     Where did he get that word?  I do not think I have ever used 
it.
     No, he took no interest in my name.  I tried to hide my 
disappointment, but I suppose I did not succeed.  I went away and 
sat on the moss-bank with my feet in the water.  It is where I go 
when I hunger for companionship, some one to look at, some one to 
talk to.  It is not enough--that lovely white body painted there 
in the pool--but it is something, and something is better than 
utter loneliness.  It talks when I talk; it is sad when I am sad; 
it comforts me with its sympathy; it says, "Do not be 
downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be your friend."  
It IS a good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.
     That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never 
forget that--never, never.  My heart was lead in my body!  I 
said, "She was all I had, and now she is gone!"  In my despair I 
said, "Break, my heart; I cannot bear my life any more!" and hid 
my face in my hands, and there was no solace for me.  And when I 
took them away, after a little, there she was again, white and 
shining and beautiful, and I sprang into her arms!
     That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, 
but it was not like this, which was ecstasy.  I never doubted her 
afterward.  Sometimes she stayed away--maybe an hour, maybe 
almost the whole day, but I waited and did not doubt; I said, 
"She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but she will come."  
And it was so:  she always did.  At night she would not come if 
it was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if there was a 
moon she would come.  I am not afraid of the dark, but she is 
younger than I am; she was born after I was.  Many and many are 
the visits I have paid her; she is my comfort and my refuge when 
my life is hard--and it is mainly that.
     TUESDAY.--All the morning I was at work improving the 
estate; and I purposely kept away from him in the hope that he 
would get lonely and come.  But he did not.
     At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by 
flitting all about with the bees and the butterflies and reveling 
in the flowers, those beautiful creatures that catch the smile of 
God out of the sky and preserve it!  I gathered them, and made 
them into wreaths and garlands and clothed myself in them while I 
ate my luncheon--apples, of course; then I sat in the shade and 
wished and waited.  But he did not come.
     But no matter.  Nothing would have come of it, for he does 
not care for flowers.  He called them rubbish, and cannot tell 
one from another, and thinks it is superior to feel like that.  
He does not care for me, he does not care for flowers, he does 
not care for the painted sky at eventide--is there anything he 
does care for, except building shacks to coop himself up in from 
the good clean rain, and thumping the melons, and sampling the 
grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to see how those 
properties are coming along?
     I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in 
it with another one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had, 
and soon I got an awful fright.  A thin, transparent bluish film 
rose out of the hole, and I dropped everything and ran!  I 
thought it was a spirit, and I WAS so frightened!  But I looked 
back, and it was not coming; so I leaned against a rock and 
rested and panted, and let my limps go on trembling until they 
got steady again; then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and 
ready to fly if there was occasion; and when I was come near, I 
parted the branches of a rose-bush and peeped through--wishing 
the man was about, I was looking so cunning and pretty--but the 
sprite was gone.  I went there, and there was a pinch of delicate 
pink dust in the hole.  I put my finger in, to feel it, and said 
OUCH! and took it out again.  It was a cruel pain.  I put my 
finger in my mouth; and by standing first on one foot and then 
the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery; then I was 
full of interest, and began to examine.
     I was curious to know what the pink dust was.  Suddenly the 
name of it occurred to me, though I had never heard of it before.  
It was FIRE!  I was as certain of it as a person could be of 
anything in the world.  So without hesitation I named it that--
fire.
     I had created something that didn't exist before; I had 
added a new thing to the world's uncountable properties; I 
realized this, and was proud of my achievement, and was going to 
run and find him and tell him about it, thinking to raise myself 
in his esteem--but I reflected, and did not do it.  No--he would 
not care for it.  He would ask what it was good for, and what 
could I answer? for if it was not GOOD for something, but only 
beautiful, merely beautiful--
     So I sighed, and did not go.  For it wasn't good for 
anything; it could not build a shack, it could not improve 
melons, it could not hurry a fruit crop; it was useless, it was a 
foolishness and a vanity; he would despise it and say cutting 
words.  But to me it was not despicable; I said, "Oh, you fire, I 
love you, you dainty pink creature, for you are BEAUTIFUL--and 
that is enough!" and was going to gather it to my breast.  But 
refrained.  Then I made another maxim out of my head, though it 
was so nearly like the first one that I was afraid it was only a 
plagiarism:  "THE BURNT EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE."
     I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-
dust I emptied it into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to 
carry it home and keep it always and play with it; but the wind 
struck it and it sprayed up and spat out at me fiercely, and I 
dropped it and ran.  When I looked back the blue spirit was 
towering up and stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and 
instantly I thought of the name of it--SMOKE!--though, upon my 
word, I had never heard of smoke before.
     Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the 
smoke, and I named them in an instant--FLAMES--and I was right, 
too, though these were the very first flames that had ever been 
in the world.  They climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in 
and out of the vast and increasing volume of tumbling smoke, and 
I had to clap my hands and laugh and dance in my rapture, it was 
so new and strange and so wonderful and so beautiful!
     He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word 
for many minutes.  Then he asked what it was.  Ah, it was too bad 
that he should ask such a direct question.  I had to answer it, 
of course, and I did.  I said it was fire.  If it annoyed him 
that I should know and he must ask; that was not my fault; I had 
no desire to annoy him.  After a pause he asked:
     "How did it come?"
     Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct 
answer.
     "I made it."
     The fire was traveling farther and farther off.  He went to 
the edge of the burned place and stood looking down, and said:
     "What are these?"
     "Fire-coals."
     He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put 
it down again.  Then he went away.  NOTHING interests him.
     But I was interested.  There were ashes, gray and soft and 
delicate and pretty--I knew what they were at once.  And the 
embers; I knew the embers, too.  I found my apples, and raked 
them out, and was glad; for I am very young and my appetite is 
active.  But I was disappointed; they were all burst open and 
spoiled.  Spoiled apparently; but it was not so; they were better 
than raw ones.  Fire is beautiful; some day it will be useful, I 
think.
     FRIDAY.--I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at 
nightfall, but only for a moment.  I was hoping he would praise 
me for trying to improve the estate, for I had meant well and had 
worked hard.  But he was not pleased, and turned away and left 
me.  He was also displeased on another account:  I tried once 
more to persuade him to stop going over the Falls.  That was 
because the fire had revealed to me a new passion--quite new, and 
distinctly different from love, grief, and those others which I 
had already discovered--FEAR.  And it is horrible!--I wish I had 
never discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my 
happiness, it makes me shiver and tremble and shudder.  But I 
could not persuade him, for he has not discovered fear yet, and 
so he could not understand me.

                    Extract from Adam's Diary

     Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere 
girl and make allowances.  She is all interest, eagerness, 
vivacity, the world is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a 
joy; she can't speak for delight when she finds a new flower, she 
must pet it and caress it and smell it and talk to it, and pour 
out endearing names upon it.  And she is color-mad:  brown rocks, 
yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of the 
dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands 
floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing 
through the shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in 
the wastes of space--none of them is of any practical value, so 
far as I can see, but because they have color and majesty, that 
is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them.  If she 
could quiet down and keep still a couple minutes at a time, it 
would be a reposeful spectacle.  In that case I think I could 
enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming 
to realize that she is a quite remarkably comely creature--lithe, 
slender, trim, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once when 
she was standing marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder, with 
her young head tilted back and her hand shading her eyes, 
watching the flight of a bird in the sky, I recognized that she 
was beautiful.
     MONDAY NOON.--If there is anything on the planet that she is 
not interested in it is not in my list.  There are animals that I 
am indifferent to, but it is not so with her.  She has no 
discrimination, she takes to all of them, she thinks they are all 
treasures, every new one is welcome.
     When the mighty brontosaurus came striding into camp, she 
regarded it as an acquisition, I considered it a calamity; that 
is a good sample of the lack of harmony that prevails in our 
views of things.  She wanted to domesticate it, I wanted to make 
it a present of the homestead and move out.  She believed it 
could be tamed by kind treatment and would be a good pet; I said 
a pet twenty-one feet high and eight-four feet long would be no 
proper thing to have about the place, because, even with the best 
intentions and without meaning any harm, it could sit down on the 
house and mash it, for any one could see by the look of its eye 
that it was absent-minded.
     Still, her heart was set upon having that monster, and she 
couldn't give it up.  She thought we could start a dairy with it, 
and wanted me to help milk it; but I wouldn't; it was too risky.  
The sex wasn't right, and we hadn't any ladder anyway.  Then she 
wanted to ride it, and look at the scenery.  Thirty or forty feet 
of its tail was lying on the ground, like a fallen tree, and she 
thought she could climb it, but she was mistaken; when she got to 
the steep place it was too slick and down she came, and would 
have hurt herself but for me.
     Was she satisfied now?  No.  Nothing ever satisfies her but 
demonstration; untested theories are not in her line, and she 
won't have them.  It is the right spirit, I concede it; it 
attracts me; I feel the influence of it; if I were with her more 
I think I should take it up myself.  Well, she had one theory 
remaining about this colossus:  she thought that if we could tame 
it and make him friendly we could stand in the river and use him 
for a bridge.  It turned out that he was already plenty tame 
enough--at least as far as she was concerned--so she tried her 
theory, but it failed:  every time she got him properly placed in 
the river and went ashore to cross over him, he came out and 
followed her around like a pet mountain.  Like the other animals.  
They all do that.

     FRIDAY.--Tuesday--Wednesday--Thursday--and today: all 
without seeing him.  It is a long time to be alone; still, it is 
better to be alone than unwelcome.
     I HAD to have company--I was made for it, I think--so I made 
friends with the animals.  They are just charming, and they have 
the kindest disposition and the politest ways; they never look 
sour, they never let you feel that you are intruding, they smile 
at you and wag their tail, if they've got one, and they are 
always ready for a romp or an excursion or anything you want to 
propose.  I think they are perfect gentlemen.  All these days we 
have had such good times, and it hasn't been lonesome for me, 
ever.  Lonesome!  No, I should say not.  Why, there's always a 
swarm of them around--sometimes as much as four or five acres--
you can't count them; and when you stand on a rock in the midst 
and look out over the furry expanse it is so mottled and splashed 
and gay with color and frisking sheen and sun-flash, and so 
rippled with stripes, that you might think it was a lake, only 
you know it isn't; and there's storms of sociable birds, and 
hurricanes of whirring wings; and when the sun strikes all that 
feathery commotion, you have a blazing up of all the colors you 
can think of, enough to put your eyes out.
     We have made long excursions, and I have see a great deal of 
the world; almost all of it, I think; and so I am the first 
traveler, and the only one.  When we are on the march, it is an 
imposing sight--there's nothing like it anywhere.  For comfort I 
ride a tiger or a leopard, because it is soft and has a round 
back that fits me, and because they are such pretty animals; but 
for long distance or for scenery I ride the elephant.  He hoists 
me up with his trunk, but I can get off myself; when we are ready 
to camp, he sits and I slide down the back way.
     The birds and animals are all friendly to each other, and 
there are no disputes about anything.  They all talk, and they 
all talk to me, but it must be a foreign language, for I cannot 
make out a word they say; yet they often understand me when I 
talk back, particularly the dog and the elephant.  It makes me 
ashamed.  It shows that they are brighter than I am, for I want 
to be the principal Experiment myself--and I intend to be, too.
     I have learned a number of things, and am educated, now, but 
I wasn't at first.  I was ignorant at first.  At first it used to 
vex me because, with all my watching, I was never smart enough to 
be around when the water was running uphill; but now I do not 
mind it.  I have experimented and experimented until now I know 
it never does run uphill, except in the dark.  I know it does in 
the dark, because the pool never goes dry, which it would, of 
course, if the water didn't come back in the night.  It is best 
to prove things by actual experiment; then you KNOW; whereas if 
you depend on guessing and supposing and conjecturing, you never 
get educated.
     Some things you CAN'T find out; but you will never know you 
can't by guessing and supposing:  no, you have to be patient and 
go on experimenting until you find out that you can't find out.  
And it is delightful to have it that way, it makes the world so 
interesting.  If there wasn't anything to find out, it would be 
dull.  Even trying to find out and not finding out is just as 
interesting as trying to find out and finding out, and I don't 
know but more so.  The secret of the water was a treasure until I 
GOT it; then the excitement all went away, and I recognized a 
sense of loss.
     By experiment I know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and 
feathers, and plenty of other things; therefore by all that 
cumulative evidence you know that a rock will swim; but you have 
to put up with simply knowing it, for there isn't any way to 
prove it--up to now.  But I shall find a way--then THAT 
excitement will go.  Such things make me sad; because by and by 
when I have found out everything there won't be any more 
excitements, and I do love excitements so!  The other night I 
couldn't sleep for thinking about it.
     At first I couldn't make out what I was made for, but now I 
think it was to search out the secrets of this wonderful world 
and be happy and thank the Giver of it all for devising it.  I 
think there are many things to learn yet--I hope so; and by 
economizing and not hurrying too fast I think they will last 
weeks and weeks.  I hope so.  When you cast up a feather it sails 
away on the air and goes out of sight; then you throw up a clod 
and it doesn't.  It comes down, every time.  I have tried it and 
tried it, and it is always so.  I wonder why it is?  Of course it 
DOESN'T come down, but why should it SEEM to?  I suppose it is an 
optical illusion.  I mean, one of them is.  I don't know which 
one.  It may be the feather, it may be the clod; I can't prove 
which it is, I can only demonstrate that one or the other is a 
fake, and let a person take his choice.
     By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last.  I 
have seen some of the best ones melt and run down the sky. Since 
one can melt, they can all melt; since they can all melt, they 
can all melt the same night.  That sorrow will come--I know it.  
I mean to sit up every night and look at them as long as I can 
keep awake; and I will impress those sparkling fields on my 
memory, so that by and by when they are taken away I can by my 
fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky and make them 
sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears.

                         After the Fall

     When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me.  It was 
beautiful, surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and 
now it is lost, and I shall not see it any more.
     The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content.  
He loves me as well as he can; I love him with all the strength 
of my passionate nature, and this, I think, is proper to my youth 
and sex.  If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know, 
and do not really much care to know; so I suppose that this kind 
of love is not a product of reasoning and statistics, like one's 
love for other reptiles and animals. I think that this must be 
so.  I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not 
love Adam on account of his singing--no, it is not that; the more 
he sings the more I do not get reconciled to it.  Yet I ask him 
to sing, because I wish to learn to like everything he is 
interested in.  I am sure I can learn, because at first I could 
not stand it, but now I can.  It sours the milk, but it doesn't 
matter; I can get used to that kind of milk.
     It is not on account of his brightness that I love him--no, 
it is not that.  He is not to blame for his brightness, such as 
it is, for he did not make it himself; he is as God make him, and 
that is sufficient.  There was a wise purpose in it, THAT I know.  
In time it will develop, though I think it will not be sudden; 
and besides, there is no hurry; he is well enough just as he is.
     It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways 
and his delicacy that I love him.  No, he has lacks in this 
regard, but he is well enough just so, and is improving.
     It is not on account of his industry that I love him--no, it 
is not that.  I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he 
conceals it from me.  It is my only pain.  Otherwise he is frank 
and open with me, now.  I am sure he keeps nothing from me but 
this.  It grieves me that he should have a secret from me, and 
sometimes it spoils my sleep, thinking of it, but I will put it 
out of my mind; it shall not trouble my happiness, which is 
otherwise full to overflowing.
     It is not on account of his education that I love him--no, 
it is not that.  He is self-educated, and does really know a 
multitude of things, but they are not so.
     It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him--no, it 
is not that.  He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a 
peculiarity of sex, I think, and he did not make his sex.  Of 
course I would not have told on him, I would have perished first; 
but that is a peculiarity of sex, too, and I do not take credit 
for it, for I did not make my sex.
     Then why is it that I love him?  MERELY BECAUSE HE IS 
MASCULINE, I think.
     At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could 
love him without it.  If he should beat me and abuse me, I should 
go on loving him.  I know it.  It is a matter of sex, I think.
     He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I 
admire him and am proud of him, but I could love him without 
those qualities.  He he were plain, I should love him; if he were 
a wreck, I should love him; and I would work for him, and slave 
over him, and pray for him, and watch by his bedside until I 
died.
     Yes, I think I love him merely because he is MINE and is 
MASCULINE.  There is no other reason, I suppose.  And so I think 
it is as I first said:  that this kind of love is not a product 
of reasonings and statistics.  It just COMES--none knows whence--
and cannot explain itself.  And doesn't need to.
     It is what I think.  But I am only a girl, the first that 
has examined this matter, and it may turn out that in my 
ignorance and inexperience I have not got it right.

                        Forty Years Later

     It is my prayer, it is my longing, that we may pass from 
this life together--a longing which shall never perish from the 
earth, but shall have place in the heart of every wife that 
loves, until the end of time; and it shall be called by my name.
     But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it 
shall be I; for he is strong, I am weak, I am not so necessary to 
him as he is to me--life without him would not be life; now could 
I endure it?  This prayer is also immortal, and will not cease 
from being offered up while my race continues.  I am the first 
wife; and in the last wife I shall be repeated.

                         At Eve's Grave

     ADAM:  Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden.


***

The End of Project Gutenberg etext of "The $30,000 Bequest"

