The Complete Works of Mark Twain - Part 13

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The Complete Works of Mark Twain - Part 13

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A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY

Marion City, on the Mississippi River, in the State of Missouri--a
village; time, 1845.  La Bourboule-les-Bains, France--a village; time,
the end of June, 1894.  I was in the one village in that early time; I am
in the other now.  These times and places are sufficiently wide apart,
yet today I have the strange sense of being thrust back into that
Missourian village and of reliving certain stirring days that I lived
there so long ago.

Last Saturday night the life of the President of the French Republic was
taken by an Italian assassin.  Last night a mob surrounded our hotel,
shouting, howling, singing the "Marseillaise," and pelting our windows
with sticks and stones; for we have Italian waiters, and the mob demanded
that they be turned out of the house instantly--to be drubbed, and then
driven out of the village.  Everybody in the hotel remained up until far
into the night, and experienced the several kinds of terror which one
reads about in books which tell of nigh attacks by Italians and by French
mobs: the growing roar of the oncoming crowd; the arrival, with rain of
stones and a crash of glass; the withdrawal to rearrange plans--followed
by a silence ominous, threatening, and harder to bear than even the
active siege and the noise.  The landlord and the two village policemen
stood their ground, and at last the mob was persuaded to go away and
leave our Italians in peace.  Today four of the ringleaders have been
sentenced to heavy punishment of a public sort--and are become local
heroes, by consequence.

That is the very mistake which was at first made in the Missourian
village half a century ago.  The mistake was repeated and repeated--just
as France is doing in these later months.

In our village we had our Ravochals, our Henrys, our Vaillants; and in a
humble way our Cesario--I hope I have spelled this name wrong.  Fifty
years ago we passed through, in all essentials, what France has been
passing through during the past two or three years, in the matter of
periodical frights, horrors, and shudderings.

In several details the parallels are quaintly exact.  In that day, for a
man to speak out openly and proclaim himself an enemy of negro slavery
was simply to proclaim himself a madman. For he was blaspheming against
the holiest thing known to a Missourian, and could NOT be in his right
mind.  For a man to proclaim himself an anarchist in France, three years
ago, was to proclaim himself a madman--he could not be in his right mind.

Now the original first blasphemer against any institution profoundly
venerated by a community is quite sure to be in earnest; his followers
and imitators may be humbugs and self-seekers, but he himself is
sincere--his heart is in his protest.

Robert Hardy was our first ABOLITIONIST--awful name!  He was a journeyman
cooper, and worked in the big cooper-shop belonging to the great
pork-packing establishment which was Marion City's chief pride and sole
source of prosperity.  He was a New-Englander, a stranger.  And, being a
stranger, he was of course regarded as an inferior person--for that has
been human nature from Adam down--and of course, also, he was made to
feel unwelcome, for this is the ancient law with man and the other
animals.  Hardy was thirty years old, and a bachelor; pale, given to
reverie and reading.  He was reserved, and seemed to prefer the isolation
which had fallen to his lot.  He was treated to many side remarks by his
fellows, but as he did not resent them it was decided that he was a
coward.

All of a sudden he proclaimed himself an abolitionist--straight out and
publicly!  He said that negro slavery was a crime, an infamy.  For a
moment the town was paralyzed with astonishment; then it broke into a
fury of rage and swarmed toward the cooper-shop to lynch Hardy.  But the
Methodist minister made a powerful speech to them and stayed their hands.
He proved to them that Hardy was insane and not responsible for his
words; that no man COULD be sane and utter such words.

So Hardy was saved.  Being insane, he was allowed to go on talking.  He
was found to be good entertainment.  Several nights running he made
abolition speeches in the open air, and all the town flocked to hear and
laugh.  He implored them to believe him sane and sincere, and have pity
on the poor slaves, and take measurements for the restoration of their
stolen rights, or in no long time blood would flow--blood, blood, rivers
of blood!

It was great fun.  But all of a sudden the aspect of things changed.  A
slave came flying from Palmyra, the county-seat, a few miles back, and
was about to escape in a canoe to Illinois and freedom in the dull
twilight of the approaching dawn, when the town constable seized him.
Hardy happened along and tried to rescue the negro; there was a struggle,
and the constable did not come out of it alive.  Hardly crossed the river
with the negro, and then came back to give himself up.  All this took
time, for the Mississippi is not a French brook, like the Seine, the
Loire, and those other rivulets, but is a real river nearly a mile wide.
The town was on hand in force by now, but the Methodist preacher and the
sheriff had already made arrangements in the interest of order; so Hardy
was surrounded by a strong guard and safely conveyed to the village
calaboose in spite of all the effort of the mob to get hold of him.  The
reader will have begun to perceive that this Methodist minister was a
prompt man; a prompt man, with active hands and a good headpiece.
Williams was his name--Damon Williams; Damon Williams in public,
Damnation Williams in private, because he was so powerful on that theme
and so frequent.

The excitement was prodigious.  The constable was the first man who had
ever been killed in the town.  The event was by long odds the most
imposing in the town's history.  It lifted the humble village into sudden
importance; its name was in everybody's mouth for twenty miles around.
And so was the name of Robert Hardy--Robert Hardy, the stranger, the
despised.  In a day he was become the person of most consequence in the
region, the only person talked about.  As to those other coopers, they
found their position curiously changed--they were important people, or
unimportant, now, in proportion as to how large or how small had been
their intercourse with the new celebrity.  The two or three who had
really been on a sort of familiar footing with him found themselves
objects of admiring interest with the public and of envy with their
shopmates.

The village weekly journal had lately gone into new hands. The new man
was an enterprising fellow, and he made the most of the tragedy.  He
issued an extra.  Then he put up posters promising to devote his whole
paper to matters connected with the great event--there would be a full
and intensely interesting biography of the murderer, and even a portrait
of him.  He was as good as his word.  He carved the portrait himself, on
the back of a wooden type--and a terror it was to look at.  It made a
great commotion, for this was the first time the village paper had ever
contained a picture.  The village was very proud.  The output of the
paper was ten times as great as it had ever been before, yet every copy
was sold.

When the trial came on, people came from all the farms around, and from
Hannibal, and Quincy, and even from Keokuk; and the court-house could
hold only a fraction of the crowd that applied for admission.  The trial
was published in the village paper, with fresh and still more trying
pictures of the accused.

Hardy was convicted, and hanged--a mistake.  People came from miles
around to see the hanging; they brought cakes and cider, also the women
and children, and made a picnic of the matter.  It was the largest crowd
the village had ever seen.  The rope that hanged Hardy was eagerly bought
up, in inch samples, for everybody wanted a memento of the memorable
event.

Martyrdom gilded with notoriety has its fascinations. Within one week
afterward four young lightweights in the village proclaimed themselves
abolitionists!  In life Hardy had not been able to make a convert;
everybody laughed at him; but nobody could laugh at his legacy.  The four
swaggered around with their slouch-hats pulled down over their faces, and
hinted darkly at awful possibilities.  The people were troubled and
afraid, and showed it.  And they were stunned, too; they could not
understand it.  "Abolitionist" had always been a term of shame and
horror; yet here were four young men who were not only not ashamed to
bear that name, but were grimly proud of it.  Respectable young men they
were, too--of good families, and brought up in the church.  Ed Smith, the
printer's apprentice, nineteen, had been the head Sunday-school boy, and
had once recited three thousand Bible verses without making a break.
Dick Savage, twenty, the baker's apprentice; Will Joyce, twenty-two,
journeyman blacksmith; and Henry Taylor, twenty-four,
tobacco-stemmer--were the other three.  They were all of a sentimental
cast; they were all romance-readers; they all wrote poetry, such as it
was; they were all vain and foolish; but they had never before been
suspected of having anything bad in them.

They withdrew from society, and grew more and more mysterious and
dreadful.  They presently achieved the distinction of being denounced by
names from the pulpit--which made an immense stir!  This was grandeur,
this was fame.  They were envied by all the other young fellows now.
This was natural. Their company grew--grew alarmingly.  They took a name.
It was a secret name, and was divulged to no outsider; publicly they were
simply the abolitionists.  They had pass-words, grips, and signs; they
had secret meetings; their initiations were conducted with gloomy pomps
and ceremonies, at midnight.

They always spoke of Hardy as "the Martyr," and every little while they
moved through the principal street in procession--at midnight,
black-robed, masked, to the measured tap of the solemn drum--on
pilgrimage to the Martyr's grave, where they went through with some
majestic fooleries and swore vengeance upon his murderers.  They gave
previous notice of the pilgrimage by small posters, and warned everybody
to keep indoors and darken all houses along the route, and leave the road
empty.  These warnings were obeyed, for there was a skull and crossbones
at the top of the poster.

When this kind of thing had been going on about eight weeks, a quite
natural thing happened.  A few men of character and grit woke up out of
the nightmare of fear which had been stupefying their faculties, and
began to discharge scorn and scoffings at themselves and the community
for enduring this child's-play; and at the same time they proposed to end
it straightway.  Everybody felt an uplift; life was breathed into their
dead spirits; their courage rose and they began to feel like men again.
This was on a Saturday.  All day the new feeling grew and strengthened;
it grew with a rush; it brought inspiration and cheer with it. Midnight
saw a united community, full of zeal and pluck, and with a clearly
defined and welcome piece of work in front of it.  The best organizer and
strongest and bitterest talker on that great Saturday was the
Presbyterian clergyman who had denounced the original four from his
pulpit--Rev. Hiram Fletcher--and he promised to use his pulpit in the
public interest again now.  On the morrow he had revelations to make, he
said--secrets of the dreadful society.

But the revelations were never made.  At half past two in the morning the
dead silence of the village was broken by a crashing explosion, and the
town patrol saw the preacher's house spring in a wreck of whirling
fragments into the sky.  The preacher was killed, together with a negro
woman, his only slave and servant.

The town was paralyzed again, and with reason.  To struggle against a
visible enemy is a thing worth while, and there is a plenty of men who
stand always ready to undertake it; but to struggle against an invisible
one--an invisible one who sneaks in and does his awful work in the dark
and leaves no trace--that is another matter.  That is a thing to make the
bravest tremble and hold back.

The cowed populace were afraid to go to the funeral.  The man who was to
have had a packed church to hear him expose and denounce the common enemy
had but a handful to see him buried. The coroner's jury had brought in a
verdict of "death by the visitation of God," for no witness came forward;
if any existed they prudently kept out of the way.  Nobody seemed sorry.
Nobody wanted to see the terrible secret society provoked into the
commission of further outrages.  Everybody wanted the tragedy hushed up,
ignored, forgotten, if possible.

And so there was a bitter surprise and an unwelcome one when Will Joyce,
the blacksmith's journeyman, came out and proclaimed himself the
assassin!  Plainly he was not minded to be robbed of his glory.  He made
his proclamation, and stuck to it.  Stuck to it, and insisted upon a
trial.  Here was an ominous thing; here was a new and peculiarly
formidable terror, for a motive was revealed here which society could not
hope to deal with successfully--VANITY, thirst for notoriety.  If men
were going to kill for notoriety's sake, and to win the glory of
newspaper renown, a big trial, and a showy execution, what possible
invention of man could discourage or deter them?  The town was in a sort
of panic; it did not know what to do.

However, the grand jury had to take hold of the matter--it had no choice.
It brought in a true bill, and presently the case went to the county
court.  The trial was a fine sensation.  The prisoner was the principal
witness for the prosecution.  He gave a full account of the
assassination; he furnished even the minutest particulars: how he
deposited his keg of powder and laid his train--from the house to
such-and-such a spot; how George Ronalds and Henry Hart came along just
then, smoking, and he borrowed Hart's cigar and fired the train with it,
shouting, "Down with all slave-tyrants!" and how Hart and Ronalds made no
effort to capture him, but ran away, and had never come forward to
testify yet.

But they had to testify now, and they did--and pitiful it was to see how
reluctant they were, and how scared.  The crowded house listened to
Joyce's fearful tale with a profound and breathless interest, and in a
deep hush which was not broken till he broke it himself, in concluding,
with a roaring repetition of his "Death to all slave-tyrants!"--which
came so unexpectedly and so startlingly that it made everyone present
catch his breath and gasp.

The trial was put in the paper, with biography and large portrait, with
other slanderous and insane pictures, and the edition sold beyond
imagination.

The execution of Joyce was a fine and picturesque thing.  It drew a vast
crowd.  Good places in trees and seats on rail fences sold for half a
dollar apiece; lemonade and gingerbread-stands had great prosperity.
Joyce recited a furious and fantastic and denunciatory speech on the
scaffold which had imposing passages of school-boy eloquence in it, and
gave him a reputation on the spot as an orator, and his name, later, in
the society's records, of the "Martyr Orator."  He went to his death
breathing slaughter and charging his society to "avenge his murder."  If
he knew anything of human nature he knew that to plenty of young fellows
present in that great crowd he was a grand hero--and enviably situated.

He was hanged.  It was a mistake.  Within a month from his death the
society which he had honored had twenty new members, some of them
earnest, determined men.  They did not court distinction in the same way,
but they celebrated his martyrdom. The crime which had been obscure and
despised had become lofty and glorified.

Such things were happening all over the country.  Wild-brained martyrdom
was succeeded by uprising and organization. Then, in natural order,
followed riot, insurrection, and the wrack and restitutions of war.  It
was bound to come, and it would naturally come in that way.  It has been
the manner of reform since the beginning of the world.





SWITZERLAND, THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY

Interlaken, Switzerland, 1891.

It is a good many years since I was in Switzerland last.  In that remote
time there was only one ladder railway in the country.  That state of
things is all changed.  There isn't a mountain in Switzerland now that
hasn't a ladder railroad or two up its back like suspenders; indeed, some
mountains are latticed with them, and two years hence all will be.  In
that day the peasant of the high altitudes will have to carry a lantern
when he goes visiting in the night to keep from stumbling over railroads
that have been built since his last round.  And also in that day, if
there shall remain a high-altitude peasant whose potato-patch hasn't a
railroad through it, it would make him as conspicuous as William Tell.

However, there are only two best ways to travel through Switzerland.  The
first best is afloat.  The second best is by open two-horse carriage.
One can come from Lucerne to Interlaken over the Brunig by ladder
railroad in an hour or so now, but you can glide smoothly in a carriage
in ten, and have two hours for luncheon at noon--for luncheon, not for
rest.  There is no fatigue connected with the trip.  One arrives fresh in
spirit and in person in the evening--no fret in his heart, no grime on
his face, no grit in his hair, not a cinder in his eye.  This is the
right condition of mind and body, the right and due preparation for the
solemn event which closed the day--stepping with metaphorically uncovered
head into the presence of the most impressive mountain mass that the
globe can show--the Jungfrau. The stranger's first feeling, when suddenly
confronted by that towering and awful apparition wrapped in its shroud of
snow, is breath-taking astonishment.  It is as if heaven's gates had
swung open and exposed the throne.

It is peaceful here and pleasant at Interlaken.  Nothing going on--at
least nothing but brilliant life-giving sunshine. There are floods and
floods of that.  One may properly speak of it as "going on," for it is
full of the suggestion of activity; the light pours down with energy,
with visible enthusiasm.  This is a good atmosphere to be in, morally as
well as physically. After trying the political atmosphere of the
neighboring monarchies, it is healing and refreshing to breathe air that
has known no taint of slavery for six hundred years, and to come among a
people whose political history is great and fine, and worthy to be taught
in all schools and studied by all races and peoples.  For the struggle
here throughout the centuries has not been in the interest of any private
family, or any church, but in the interest of the whole body of the
nation, and for shelter and protection of all forms of belief.  This fact
is colossal.  If one would realize how colossal it is, and of what
dignity and majesty, let him contrast it with the purposes and objects of
the Crusades, the siege of York, the War of the Roses, and other historic
comedies of that sort and size.

Last week I was beating around the Lake of Four Cantons, and I saw Rutli
and Altorf.  Rutli is a remote little patch of meadow, but I do not know
how any piece of ground could be holier or better worth crossing oceans
and continents to see, since it was there that the great trinity of
Switzerland joined hands six centuries ago and swore the oath which set
their enslaved and insulted country forever free; and Altorf is also
honorable ground and worshipful, since it was there that William,
surnamed Tell (which interpreted means "The foolish talker"--that is to
say, the too-daring talker), refused to bow to Gessler's hat.  Of late
years the prying student of history has been delighting himself beyond
measure over a wonderful find which he has made--to wit, that Tell did
not shoot the apple from his son's head. To hear the students jubilate,
one would suppose that the question of whether Tell shot the apple or
didn't was an important matter; whereas it ranks in importance exactly
with the question of whether Washington chopped down the cherry-tree or
didn't.  The deeds of Washington, the patriot, are the essential thing;
the cherry-tree incident is of no consequence.  To prove that Tell did
shoot the apple from his son's head would merely prove that he had better
nerve than most men and was skillful with a bow as a million others who
preceded and followed him, but not one whit more so.  But Tell was more
and better than a mere marksman, more and better than a mere cool head;
he was a type; he stands for Swiss patriotism; in his person was
represented a whole people; his spirit was their spirit--the spirit which
would bow to none but God, the spirit which said this in words and
confirmed it with deeds.  There have always been Tells in
Switzerland--people who would not bow.  There was a sufficiency of them
at Rutli; there were plenty of them at Murten; plenty at Grandson; there
are plenty today.  And the first of them all--the very first, earliest
banner-bearer of human freedom in this world--was not a man, but a
woman--Stauffacher's wife.  There she looms dim and great, through the
haze of the centuries, delivering into her husband's ear that gospel of
revolt which was to bear fruit in the conspiracy of Rutli and the birth
of the first free government the world had ever seen.

From this Victoria Hotel one looks straight across a flat of trifling
width to a lofty mountain barrier, which has a gateway in it shaped like
an inverted pyramid.  Beyond this gateway arises the vast bulk of the
Jungfrau, a spotless mass of gleaming snow, into the sky.  The gateway,
in the dark-colored barrier, makes a strong frame for the great picture.
The somber frame and the glowing snow-pile are startlingly contrasted.
It is this frame which concentrates and emphasizes the glory of the
Jungfrau and makes it the most engaging and beguiling and fascinating
spectacle that exists on the earth.  There are many mountains of snow
that are as lofty as the Jungfrau and as nobly proportioned, but they
lack the fame.  They stand at large; they are intruded upon and elbowed
by neighboring domes and summits, and their grandeur is diminished and
fails of effect.

It is a good name, Jungfrau--Virgin.  Nothing could be whiter; nothing
could be purer; nothing could be saintlier of aspect.  At six yesterday
evening the great intervening barrier seen through a faint bluish haze
seemed made of air and substanceless, so soft and rich it was, so
shimmering where the wandering lights touched it and so dim where the
shadows lay. Apparently it was a dream stuff, a work of the imagination,
nothing real about it.  The tint was green, slightly varying shades of
it, but mainly very dark.  The sun was down--as far as that barrier was
concerned, but not for the Jungfrau, towering into the heavens beyond the
gateway.  She was a roaring conflagration of blinding white.

It is said the Fridolin (the old Fridolin), a new saint, but formerly a
missionary, gave the mountain its gracious name.  He was an Irishman, son
of an Irish king--there were thirty thousand kings reigning in County
Cork alone in his time, fifteen hundred years ago.  It got so that they
could not make a living, there was so much competition and wages got cut
so.  Some of them were out of work months at a time, with wife and little
children to feed, and not a crust in the place.  At last a particularly
severe winter fell upon the country, and hundreds of them were reduced to
mendicancy and were to be seen day after day in the bitterest weather,
standing barefoot in the snow, holding out their crowns for alms.
Indeed, they would have been obliged to emigrate or starve but for a
fortunate idea of Prince Fridolin's, who started a labor-union, the first
one in history, and got the great bulk of them to join it.  He thus won
the general gratitude, and they wanted to make him emperor--emperor over
them all--emperor of County Cork, but he said, No, walking delegate was
good enough for him.  For behold! he was modest beyond his years, and
keen as a whip.  To this day in Germany and Switzerland, where St.
Fridolin is revered and honored, the peasantry speak of him
affectionately as the first walking delegate.

The first walk he took was into France and Germany, missionarying--for
missionarying was a better thing in those days than it is in ours.  All
you had to do was to cure the savage's sick daughter by a "miracle"--a
miracle like the miracle of Lourdes in our day, for instance--and
immediately that head savage was your convert, and filled to the eyes
with a new convert's enthusiasm.  You could sit down and make yourself
easy, now.  He would take an ax and convert the rest of the nation
himself.  Charlemagne was that kind of a walking delegate.

Yes, there were great missionaries in those days, for the methods were
sure and the rewards great.  We have no such missionaries now, and no
such methods.

But to continue the history of the first walking delegate, if you are
interested.  I am interested myself because I have seen his relics in
Sackingen, and also the very spot where he worked his great miracle--the
one which won him his sainthood in the papal court a few centuries later.
To have seen these things makes me feel very near to him, almost like a
member of the family, in fact.  While wandering about the Continent he
arrived at the spot on the Rhine which is now occupied by Sackingen, and
proposed to settle there, but the people warned him off.  He appealed to
the king of the Franks, who made him a present of the whole region,
people and all.  He built a great cloister there for women and proceeded
to teach in it and accumulate more land. There were two wealthy brothers
in the neighborhood, Urso and Landulph.  Urso died and Fridolin claimed
his estates.  Landulph asked for documents and papers.  Fridolin had none
to show.  He said the bequest had been made to him by word of mouth.
Landulph suggested that he produce a witness and said it in a way which
he thought was very witty, very sarcastic.  This shows that he did not
know the walking delegate.  Fridolin was not disturbed. He said:

"Appoint your court.  I will bring a witness."

The court thus created consisted of fifteen counts and barons.  A day was
appointed for the trial of the case.  On that day the judges took their
seats in state, and proclamation was made that the court was ready for
business.  Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, and yet no
Fridolin appeared. Landulph rose, and was in the act of claiming judgment
by default when a strange clacking sound was heard coming up the stairs.
In another moment Fridolin entered at the door and came walking in a deep
hush down the middle aisle, with a tall skeleton stalking in his rear.

Amazement and terror sat upon every countenance, for everybody suspected
that the skeleton was Urso's.  It stopped before the chief judge and
raised its bony arm aloft and began to speak, while all the assembled
shuddered, for they could see the words leak out between its ribs.  It
said:

"Brother, why dost thou disturb my blessed rest and withhold by robbery
the gift which I gave thee for the honor of God?"

It seems a strange thing and most irregular, but the verdict was actually
given against Landulph on the testimony of this wandering rack-heap of
unidentified bones.  In our day a skeleton would not be allowed to
testify at all, for a skeleton has no moral responsibility, and its word
could not be believed on oath, and this was probably one of them.
However, the incident is valuable as preserving to us a curious sample of
the quaint laws of evidence of that remote time--a time so remote, so far
back toward the beginning of original idiocy, that the difference between
a bench of judges and a basket of vegetables was as yet so slight that we
may say with all confidence that it didn't really exist.

During several afternoons I have been engaged in an interesting, maybe
useful, piece of work--that is to say, I have been trying to make the
mighty Jungfrau earn her living--earn it in a most humble sphere, but on
a prodigious scale, on a prodigious scale of necessity, for she couldn't
do anything in a small way with her size and style.  I have been trying
to make her do service on a stupendous dial and check off the hours as
they glide along her pallid face up there against the sky, and tell the
time of day to the populations lying within fifty miles of her and to the
people in the moon, if they have a good telescope there.

Until late in the afternoon the Jungfrau's aspect is that of a spotless
desert of snow set upon edge against the sky.  But by mid-afternoon some
elevations which rise out of the western border of the desert, whose
presence you perhaps had not detected or suspected up to that time, began
to cast black shadows eastward across the gleaming surface.  At first
there is only one shadow; later there are two.  Toward 4 P.M. the other
day I was gazing and worshiping as usual when I chanced to notice that
shadow No. 1 was beginning to take itself something of the shape of the
human profile.  By four the back of the head was good, the military cap
was pretty good, the nose was bold and strong, the upper lip sharp, but
not pretty, and there was a great goatee that shot straight aggressively
forward from the chin.

At four-thirty the nose had changed its shape considerably, and the
altered slant of the sun had revealed and made conspicuous a huge
buttress or barrier of naked rock which was so located as to answer very
well for a shoulder or coat-collar to this swarthy and indiscreet
sweetheart who had stolen out there right before everybody to pillow his
head on the Virgin's white breast and whisper soft sentimentalities to
her in the sensuous music of the crashing ice-domes and the boom and
thunder of the passing avalanche--music very familiar to his ear, for he
had heard it every afternoon at this hour since the day he first came
courting this child of the earth, who lives in the sky, and that day is
far, yes--for he was at this pleasant sport before the Middle Ages
drifted by him in the valley; before the Romans marched past, and before
the antique and recordless barbarians fished and hunted here and wondered
who he might be, and were probably afraid of him; and before primeval man
himself, just emerged from his four-footed estate, stepped out upon this
plain, first sample of his race, a thousand centuries ago, and cast a
glad eye up there, judging he had found a brother human being and
consequently something to kill; and before the big saurians wallowed
here, still some eons earlier.  Oh yes, a day so far back that the
eternal son was present to see that first visit; a day so far back that
neither tradition nor history was born yet and a whole weary eternity
must come and go before the restless little creature, of whose face this
stupendous Shadow Face was the prophecy, would arrive in the earth and
begin his shabby career and think of a big thing.  Oh, indeed yes; when
you talk about your poor Roman and Egyptian day-before-yesterday
antiquities, you should choose a time when the hoary Shadow Face of the
Jungfrau is not by.  It antedates all antiquities known or imaginable;
for it was here the world itself created the theater of future
antiquities.  And it is the only witness with a human face that was there
to see the marvel, and remains to us a memorial of it.

By 4:40 P.M. the nose of the shadow is perfect and is beautiful.  It is
black and is powerfully marked against the upright canvas of glowing
snow, and covers hundreds of acres of that resplendent surface.

Meantime shadow No. 2 has been creeping out well to the rear of the face
west of it--and at five o'clock has assumed a shape that has rather a
poor and rude semblance of a shoe.

Meantime, also, the great Shadow Face has been gradually changing for
twenty minutes, and now, 5 P.M., it is becoming a quite fair portrait of
Roscoe Conkling.  The likeness is there, and is unmistakable.  The goatee
is shortened, now, and has an end; formerly it hadn't any, but ran off
eastward and arrived nowhere.

By 6 P.M. the face has dissolved and gone, and the goatee has become what
looks like the shadow of a tower with a pointed roof, and the shoe had
turned into what the printers call a "fist" with a finger pointing.

If I were now imprisoned on a mountain summit a hundred miles northward
of this point, and was denied a timepiece, I could get along well enough
from four till six on clear days, for I could keep trace of the time by
the changing shapes of these mighty shadows of the Virgin's front, the
most stupendous dial I am acquainted with, the oldest clock in the world
by a couple of million years.

I suppose I should not have noticed the forms of the shadows if I hadn't
the habit of hunting for faces in the clouds and in mountain crags--a
sort of amusement which is very entertaining even when you don't find
any, and brilliantly satisfying when you do.  I have searched through
several bushels of photographs of the Jungfrau here, but found only one
with the Face in it, and in this case it was not strictly recognizable as
a face, which was evidence that the picture was taken before four o'clock
in the afternoon, and also evidence that all the photographers have
persistently overlooked one of the most fascinating features of the
Jungfrau show.  I say fascinating, because if you once detect a human
face produced on a great plan by unconscious nature, you never get tired
of watching it.  At first you can't make another person see it at all,
but after he has made it out once he can't see anything else afterward.

The King of Greece is a man who goes around quietly enough when off
duty.  One day this summer he was traveling in an ordinary first-class
compartment, just in his other suit, the one which he works the realm in
when he is at home, and so he was not looking like anybody in particular,
but a good deal like everybody in general.  By and by a hearty and
healthy German-American got in and opened up a frank and interesting and
sympathetic conversation with him, and asked him a couple of thousand
questions about himself, which the king answered good-naturedly, but in a
more or less indefinite way as to private particulars.

"Where do you live when you are at home?"

"In Greece."

"Greece!  Well, now, that is just astonishing!  Born there?"

"No."

"Do you speak Greek?"

"Yes."

"Now, ain't that strange!  I never expected to live to see that.  What is
your trade?  I mean how do you get your living? What is your line of
business?"

"Well, I hardly know how to answer.  I am only a kind of foreman, on a
salary; and the business--well, is a very general kind of business."

"Yes, I understand--general jobbing--little of everything--anything that
there's money in."

"That's about it, yes."

"Are you traveling for the house now?"

"Well, partly; but not entirely.  Of course I do a stroke of business if
it falls in the way--"

"Good!  I like that in you!  That's me every time.  Go on."

"I was only going to say I am off on my vacation now."

"Well that's all right.  No harm in that.  A man works all the better for
a little let-up now and then.  Not that I've been used to having it
myself; for I haven't.  I reckon this is my first.  I was born in
Germany, and when I was a couple of weeks old shipped to America, and
I've been there ever since, and that's sixty-four years by the watch.
I'm an American in principle and a German at heart, and it's the boss
combination. Well, how do you get along, as a rule--pretty fair?"

"I've a rather large family--"

"There, that's it--big family and trying to raise them on a salary.  Now,
what did you go to do that for?"

"Well, I thought--"

"Of course you did.  You were young and confident and thought you could
branch out and make things go with a whirl, and here you are, you see!
But never mind about that.  I'm not trying to discourage you.  Dear me!
I've been just where you are myself!  You've got good grit; there's good
stuff in you, I can see that.  You got a wrong start, that's the whole
trouble.  But you hold your grip, and we'll see what can be done.  Your
case ain't half as bad as it might be.  You are going to come out all
right--I'm bail for that.  Boys and girls?"

"My family?  Yes, some of them are boys--"

"And the rest girls.  It's just as I expected.  But that's all right, and
it's better so, anyway.  What are the boys doing--learning a trade?"

"Well, no--I thought--"

"It's a big mistake.  It's the biggest mistake you ever made.  You see
that in your own case.  A man ought always to have a trade to fall back
on.  Now, I was harness-maker at first.  Did that prevent me from
becoming one of the biggest brewers in America?  Oh no.  I always had the
harness trick to fall back on in rough weather.  Now, if you had learned
how to make harness--However, it's too late now; too late.  But it's no
good plan to cry over spilt milk.  But as to the boys, you see--what's to
become of them if anything happens to you?"

"It has been my idea to let the eldest one succeed me--"

"Oh, come!  Suppose the firm don't want him?"

"I hadn't thought of that, but--"

"Now, look here; you want to get right down to business and stop
dreaming.  You are capable of immense things--man.  You can make a
perfect success in life.  All you want is somebody to steady you and
boost you along on the right road.  Do you own anything in the business?"

"No--not exactly; but if I continue to give satisfaction, I suppose I can
keep my--"

"Keep your place--yes.  Well, don't you depend on anything of the kind.
They'll bounce you the minute you get a little old and worked out;
they'll do it sure.  Can't you manage somehow to get into the firm?
That's the great thing, you know."

"I think it is doubtful; very doubtful."

"Um--that's bad--yes, and unfair, too.  Do you suppose that if I should
go there and have a talk with your people--Look here--do you think you
could run a brewery?"

"I have never tried, but I think I could do it after a little familiarity
with the business."

The German was silent for some time.  He did a good deal of thinking, and
the king waited curiously to see what the result was going to be.
Finally the German said:

"My mind's made up.  You leave that crowd--you'll never amount to
anything there.  In these old countries they never give a fellow a show.
Yes, you come over to America--come to my place in Rochester; bring the
family along.  You shall have a show in the business and the foremanship,
besides.  George--you said your name was George?--I'll make a man of you.
I give you my word. You've never had a chance here, but that's all going
to change. By gracious! I'll give you a lift that'll make your hair
curl!"





AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER

Bayreuth, Aug. 2d, 1891

It was at Nuremberg that we struck the inundation of music-mad strangers
that was rolling down upon Bayreuth.  It had been long since we had seen
such multitudes of excited and struggling people.  It took a good
half-hour to pack them and pair them into the train--and it was the
longest train we have yet seen in Europe.  Nuremberg had been witnessing
this sort of experience a couple of times a day for about two weeks.  It
gives one an impressive sense of the magnitude of this biennial
pilgrimage. For a pilgrimage is what it is.  The devotees come from the
very ends of the earth to worship their prophet in his own Kaaba in his
own Mecca.

If you are living in New York or San Francisco or Chicago or anywhere
else in America, and you conclude, by the middle of May, that you would
like to attend the Bayreuth opera two months and a half later, you must
use the cable and get about it immediately or you will get no seats, and
you must cable for lodgings, too. Then if you are lucky you will get
seats in the last row and lodgings in the fringe of the town.  If you
stop to write you will get nothing.  There were plenty of people in
Nuremberg when we passed through who had come on pilgrimage without first
securing seats and lodgings.  They had found neither in Bayreuth; they
had walked Bayreuth streets a while in sorrow, then had gone to Nuremberg
and found neither beds nor standing room, and had walked those quaint
streets all night, waiting for the hotels to open and empty their guests
into trains, and so make room for these, their defeated brethren and
sisters in the faith.  They had endured from thirty to forty hours'
railroading on the continent of Europe--with all which that implies of
worry, fatigue, and financial impoverishment--and all they had got and
all they were to get for it was handiness and accuracy in kicking
themselves, acquired by practice in the back streets of the two towns
when other people were in bed; for back they must go over that
unspeakable journey with their pious mission unfulfilled. These
humiliated outcasts had the frowsy and unbrushed and apologetic look of
wet cats, and their eyes were glazed with drowsiness, their bodies were
adroop from crown to sole, and all kind-hearted people refrained from
asking them if they had been to Bayreuth and failed to connect, as
knowing they would lie.

We reached here (Bayreuth) about mid-afternoon of a rainy Saturday.  We
were of the wise, and had secured lodgings and opera seats months in
advance.

I am not a musical critic, and did not come here to write essays about
the operas and deliver judgment upon their merits. The little children of
Bayreuth could do that with a finer sympathy and a broader intelligence
than I.  I only care to bring four or five pilgrims to the operas,
pilgrims able to appreciate them and enjoy them.  What I write about the
performance to put in my odd time would be offered to the public as
merely a cat's view of a king, and not of didactic value.

Next day, which was Sunday, we left for the opera-house--that is to say,
the Wagner temple--a little after the middle of the afternoon.  The great
building stands all by itself, grand and lonely, on a high ground outside
the town.  We were warned that if we arrived after four o'clock we should
be obliged to pay two dollars and a half extra by way of fine.  We saved
that; and it may be remarked here that this is the only opportunity that
Europe offers of saving money.  There was a big crowd in the grounds
about the building, and the ladies' dresses took the sun with fine
effect.  I do not mean to intimate that the ladies were in full dress,
for that was not so.  The dresses were pretty, but neither sex was in
evening dress.

The interior of the building is simple--severely so; but there is no
occasion for color and decoration, since the people sit in the dark.  The
auditorium has the shape of a keystone, with the stage at the narrow end.
There is an aisle on each side, but no aisle in the body of the house.
Each row of seats extends in an unbroken curve from one side of the house
to the other.  There are seven entrance doors on each side of the theater
and four at the butt, eighteen doors to admit and emit 1,650 persons.
The number of the particular door by which you are to enter the house or
leave it is printed on your ticket, and you can use no door but that one.
Thus, crowding and confusion are impossible.  Not so many as a hundred
people use any one door.  This is better than having the usual (and
useless) elaborate fireproof arrangements.  It is the model theater of
the world.  It can be emptied while the second hand of a watch makes its
circuit.  It would be entirely safe, even if it were built of lucifer
matches.

If your seat is near the center of a row and you enter late you must work
your way along a rank of about twenty-five ladies and gentlemen to get to
it.  Yet this causes no trouble, for everybody stands up until all the
seats are full, and the filling is accomplished in a very few minutes.
Then all sit down, and you have a solid mass of fifteen hundred heads,
making a steep cellar-door slant from the rear of the house down to the
stage.

All the lights were turned low, so low that the congregation sat in a
deep and solemn gloom.  The funereal rustling of dresses and the low buzz
of conversation began to die swiftly down, and presently not the ghost of
a sound was left.  This profound and increasingly impressive stillness
endured for some time--the best preparation for music, spectacle, or
speech conceivable.  I should think our show people would have invented
or imported that simple and impressive device for securing and
solidifying the attention of an audience long ago; instead of which there
continue to this day to open a performance against a deadly competition
in the form of noise, confusion, and a scattered interest.

Finally, out of darkness and distance and mystery soft rich notes rose
upon the stillness, and from his grave the dead magician began to weave
his spells about his disciples and steep their souls in his enchantments.
There was something strangely impressive in the fancy which kept
intruding itself that the composer was conscious in his grave of what was
going on here, and that these divine souls were the clothing of thoughts
which were at this moment passing through his brain, and not recognized
and familiar ones which had issued from it at some former time.

The entire overture, long as it was, was played to a dark house with the
curtain down.  It was exquisite; it was delicious. But straightway
thereafter, or course, came the singing, and it does seem to me that
nothing can make a Wagner opera absolutely perfect and satisfactory to
the untutored but to leave out the vocal parts.  I wish I could see a
Wagner opera done in pantomime once.  Then one would have the lovely
orchestration unvexed to listen to and bathe his spirit in, and the
bewildering beautiful scenery to intoxicate his eyes with, and the dumb
acting couldn't mar these pleasures, because there isn't often anything
in the Wagner opera that one would call by such a violent name as acting;
as a rule all you would see would be a couple of silent people, one of
them standing still, the other catching flies.  Of course I do not really
mean that he would be catching flies; I only mean that the usual operatic
gestures which consist in reaching first one hand out into the air and
then the other might suggest the sport I speak of if the operator
attended strictly to business and uttered no sound.

This present opera was "Parsifal."  Madame Wagner does not permit its
representation anywhere but in Bayreuth.  The first act of the three
occupied two hours, and I enjoyed that in spite of the singing.

I trust that I know as well as anybody that singing is one of the most
entrancing and bewitching and moving and eloquent of all the vehicles
invented by man for the conveying of feeling; but it seems to me that the
chief virtue in song is melody, air, tune, rhythm, or what you please to
call it, and that when this feature is absent what remains is a picture
with the color left out.  I was not able to detect in the vocal parts of
"Parsifal" anything that might with confidence be called rhythm or tune
or melody; one person performed at a time--and a long time, too--often
in a noble, and always in a high-toned, voice; but he only pulled out
long notes, then some short ones, then another long one, then a sharp,
quick, peremptory bark or two--and so on and so on; and when he was done
you saw that the information which he had conveyed had not compensated
for the disturbance.  Not always, but pretty often.  If two of them would
but put in a duet occasionally and blend the voices; but no, they don't
do that. The great master, who knew so well how to make a hundred
instruments rejoice in unison and pour out their souls in mingled and
melodious tides of delicious sound, deals only in barren solos when he
puts in the vocal parts.  It may be that he was deep, and only added the
singing to his operas for the sake of the contrast it would make with the
music.  Singing!  It does seem the wrong name to apply to it.  Strictly
described, it is a practicing of difficult and unpleasant intervals,
mainly.  An ignorant person gets tired of listening to gymnastic
intervals in the long run, no matter how pleasant they may be.  In
"Parsifal" there is a hermit named Gurnemanz who stands on the stage in
one spot and practices by the hour, while first one and then another
character of the cast endures what he can of it and then retires to die.

During the evening there was an intermission of three-quarters of an hour
after the first act and one an hour long after the second.  In both
instances the theater was totally emptied.  People who had previously
engaged tables in the one sole eating-house were able to put in their
time very satisfactorily; the other thousand went hungry.  The opera was
concluded at ten in the evening or a little later.  When we reached home
we had been gone more than seven hours.  Seven hours at five dollars a
ticket is almost too much for the money.

While browsing about the front yard among the crowd between the acts I
encountered twelve or fifteen friends from different parts of America,
and those of them who were most familiar with Wagner said that "Parsifal"
seldom pleased at first, but that after one had heard it several times it
was almost sure to become a favorite.  It seemed impossible, but it was
true, for the statement came from people whose word was not to be
doubted.

And I gathered some further information.  On the ground I found part of a
German musical magazine, and in it a letter written by Uhlic thirty-three
years ago, in which he defends the scorned and abused Wagner against
people like me, who found fault with the comprehensive absence of what
our kind regards as singing.  Uhlic says Wagner despised "JENE PLAPPERUDE
MUSIC," and therefore "runs, trills, and SCHNORKEL are discarded by him."
I don't know what a SCHNORKEL is, but now that I know it has been left
out of these operas I never have missed so much in my life. And Uhlic
further says that Wagner's song is true: that it is "simply emphasized
intoned speech."  That certainly describes it--in "Parsifal" and some of
the operas; and if I understand Uhlic's elaborate German he apologizes
for the beautiful airs in "Tannh:auser."  Very well; now that Wagner and
I understand each other, perhaps we shall get along better, and I shall
stop calling Waggner, on the American plan, and thereafter call him
Waggner as per German custom, for I feel entirely friendly now. The
minute we get reconciled to a person, how willing we are to throw aside
little needless puctilios and pronounce his name right!

Of course I came home wondering why people should come from all corners
of America to hear these operas, when we have lately had a season or two
of them in New York with these same singers in the several parts, and
possibly this same orchestra.  I resolved to think that out at all
hazards.

TUESDAY.--Yesterday they played the only operatic favorite I have ever
had--an opera which has always driven me mad with ignorant delight
whenever I have heard it--"Tannh:auser."  I heard it first when I was a
youth; I heard it last in the last German season in New York.  I was busy
yesterday and I did not intend to go, knowing I should have another
"Tannh:auser" opportunity in a few days; but after five o'clock I found
myself free and walked out to the opera-house and arrived about the
beginning of the second act.  My opera ticket admitted me to the grounds
in front, past the policeman and the chain, and I thought I would take a
rest on a bench for an hour and two and wait for the third act.

In a moment or so the first bugles blew, and the multitude began to
crumble apart and melt into the theater.  I will explain that this
bugle-call is one of the pretty features here.  You see, the theater is
empty, and hundreds of the audience are a good way off in the
feeding-house; the first bugle-call is blown about a quarter of an hour
before time for the curtain to rise. This company of buglers, in uniform,
march out with military step and send out over the landscape a few bars
of the theme of the approaching act, piercing the distances with the
gracious notes; then they march to the other entrance and repeat.
Presently they do this over again.  Yesterday only about two hundred
people were still left in front of the house when the second call was
blown; in another half-minute they would have been in the house, but then
a thing happened which delayed them--the only solitary thing in this
world which could be relied on with certainty to accomplish it, I
suppose--an imperial princess appeared in the balcony above them.  They
stopped dead in their tracks and began to gaze in a stupor of gratitude
and satisfaction.  The lady presently saw that she must disappear or the
doors would be closed upon these worshipers, so she returned to her box.
This daughter-in-law of an emperor was pretty; she had a kind face; she
was without airs; she is known to be full of common human sympathies.
There are many kinds of princesses, but this kind is the most harmful of
all, for wherever they go they reconcile people to monarchy and set back
the clock of progress.  The valuable princes, the desirable princes, are
the czars and their sort.  By their mere dumb presence in the world they
cover with derision every argument that can be invented in favor of
royalty by the most ingenious casuist.  In his time the husband of this
princess was valuable.  He led a degraded life, he ended it with his own
hand in circumstances and surroundings of a hideous sort, and was buried
like a god.

In the opera-house there is a long loft back of the audience, a kind of
open gallery, in which princes are displayed. It is sacred to them; it is
the holy of holies.  As soon as the filling of the house is about
complete the standing multitude turn and fix their eyes upon the princely
layout and gaze mutely and longingly and adoringly and regretfully like
sinners looking into heaven.  They become rapt, unconscious, steeped in
worship. There is no spectacle anywhere that is more pathetic than this.
It is worth crossing many oceans to see.  It is somehow not the same gaze
that people rivet upon a Victor Hugo, or Niagara, or the bones of the
mastodon, or the guillotine of the Revolution, or the great pyramid, or
distant Vesuvius smoking in the sky, or any man long celebrated to you by
his genius and achievements, or thing long celebrated to you by the
praises of books and pictures--no, that gaze is only the gaze of intense
curiosity, interest, wonder, engaged in drinking delicious deep draughts
that taste good all the way down and appease and satisfy the thirst of a
lifetime.  Satisfy it--that is the word.  Hugo and the mastodon will
still have a degree of intense interest thereafter when encountered, but
never anything approaching the ecstasy of that first view.  The interest
of a prince is different.  It may be envy, it may be worship, doubtless
it is a mixture of both--and it does not satisfy its thirst with one
view, or even noticeably diminish it.  Perhaps the essence of the thing
is the value which men attach to a valuable something which has come by
luck and not been earned.  A dollar picked up in the road is more
satisfaction to you than the ninety-and-nine which you had to work for,
and money won at faro or in stocks snuggles into your heart in the same
way.  A prince picks up grandeur, power, and a permanent holiday and
gratis support by a pure accident, the accident of birth, and he stands
always before the grieved eye of poverty and obscurity a monumental
representative of luck.  And then--supremest value of all-his is the only
high fortune on the earth which is secure.  The commercial millionaire
may become a beggar; the illustrious statesman can make a vital mistake
and be dropped and forgotten; the illustrious general can lose a decisive
battle and with it the consideration of men; but once a prince always a
prince--that is to say, an imitation god, and neither hard fortune nor an
infamous character nor an addled brain nor the speech of an ass can
undeify him.  By common consent of all the nations and all the ages the
most valuable thing in this world is the homage of men, whether deserved
or undeserved.  It follows without doubt or question, then, that the most
desirable position possible is that of a prince.  And I think it also
follows that the so-called usurpations with which history is littered are
the most excusable misdemeanors which men have committed.  To usurp a
usurpation--that is all it amounts to, isn't it?

A prince is not to us what he is to a European, of course. We have not
been taught to regard him as a god, and so one good look at him is likely
to so nearly appease our curiosity as to make him an object of no greater
interest the next time.  We want a fresh one.  But it is not so with the
European.  I am quite sure of it.  The same old one will answer; he never
stales. Eighteen years ago I was in London and I called at an
Englishman's house on a bleak and foggy and dismal December afternoon to
visit his wife and married daughter by appointment. I waited half an hour
and then they arrived, frozen.  They explained that they had been delayed
by an unlooked-for circumstance: while passing in the neighborhood of
Marlborough House they saw a crowd gathering and were told that the
Prince of Wales was about to drive out, so they stopped to get a sight of
him.  They had waited half an hour on the sidewalk, freezing with the
crowd, but were disappointed at last--the Prince had changed his mind.  I
said, with a good deal of surprise, "Is it possible that you two have
lived in London all your lives and have never seen the Prince of Wales?"

Apparently it was their turn to be surprised, for they exclaimed: "What
an idea!  Why, we have seen him hundreds of times."

They had seem him hundreds of times, yet they had waited half an hour in
the gloom and the bitter cold, in the midst of a jam of patients from the
same asylum, on the chance of seeing him again.  It was a stupefying
statement, but one is obliged to believe the English, even when they say
a thing like that.  I fumbled around for a remark, and got out this one:

"I can't understand it at all.  If I had never seen General Grant I doubt
if I would do that even to get a sight of him." With a slight emphasis on
the last word.

Their blank faces showed that they wondered where the parallel came in.
Then they said, blankly: "Of course not.  He is only a President."

It is doubtless a fact that a prince is a permanent interest, an interest
not subject to deterioration.  The general who was never defeated, the
general who never held a council of war, the only general who ever
commanded a connected battle-front twelve hundred miles long, the smith
who welded together the broken parts of a great republic and
re-established it where it is quite likely to outlast all the monarchies
present and to come, was really a person of no serious consequence to
these people.  To them, with their training, my General was only a man,
after all, while their Prince was clearly much more than that--a being of
a wholly unsimilar construction and constitution, and being of no more
blood and kinship with men than are the serene eternal lights of the
firmament with the poor dull tallow candles of commerce that sputter and
die and leave nothing behind but a pinch of ashes and a stink.

I saw the last act of "Tannh:auser."  I sat in the gloom and the deep
stillness, waiting--one minute, two minutes, I do not know exactly how
long--then the soft music of the hidden orchestra began to breathe its
rich, long sighs out from under the distant stage, and by and by the
drop-curtain parted in the middle and was drawn softly aside, disclosing
the twilighted wood and a wayside shrine, with a white-robed girl praying
and a man standing near.  Presently that noble chorus of men's voices was
heard approaching, and from that moment until the closing of the curtain
it was music, just music--music to make one drunk with pleasure, music to
make one take scrip and staff and beg his way round the globe to hear it.

To such as are intending to come here in the Wagner season next year I
wish to say, bring your dinner-pail with you.  If you do, you will never
cease to be thankful.  If you do not, you will find it a hard fight to
save yourself from famishing in Bayreuth. Bayreuth is merely a large
village, and has no very large hotels or eating-houses.  The principal
inns are the Golden Anchor and the Sun.  At either of these places you
can get an excellent meal--no, I mean you can go there and see other
people get it. There is no charge for this.  The town is littered with
restaurants, but they are small and bad, and they are overdriven with
custom.  You must secure a table hours beforehand, and often when you
arrive you will find somebody occupying it.  We have had this experience.
We have had a daily scramble for life; and when I say we, I include
shoals of people.  I have the impression that the only people who do not
have to scramble are the veterans--the disciples who have been here
before and know the ropes.  I think they arrive about a week before the
first opera, and engage all the tables for the season.  My tribe had
tried all kinds of places--some outside of the town, a mile or two--and
have captured only nibblings and odds and ends, never in any instance a
complete and satisfying meal.  Digestible?  No, the reverse. These odds
and ends are going to serve as souvenirs of Bayreuth, and in that regard
their value is not to be overestimated. Photographs fade, bric-a-brac
gets lost, busts of Wagner get broken, but once you absorb a
Bayreuth-restaurant meal it is your possession and your property until
the time comes to embalm the rest of you.  Some of these pilgrims here
become, in effect, cabinets; cabinets of souvenirs of Bayreuth.  It is
believed among scientists that you could examine the crop of a dead
Bayreuth pilgrim anywhere in the earth and tell where he came from.  But
I like this ballast.  I think a "Hermitage" scrap-up at eight in the
evening, when all the famine-breeders have been there and laid in their
mementoes and gone, is the quietest thing you can lay on your keelson
except gravel.

THURSDAY.--They keep two teams of singers in stock for the chief roles,
and one of these is composed of the most renowned artists in the world,
with Materna and Alvary in the lead.  I suppose a double team is
necessary; doubtless a single team would die of exhaustion in a week, for
all the plays last from four in the afternoon till ten at night.  Nearly
all the labor falls upon the half-dozen head singers, and apparently they
are required to furnish all the noise they can for the money.  If they
feel a soft, whispery, mysterious feeling they are required to open out
and let the public know it.  Operas are given only on Sundays, Mondays,
Wednesdays, and Thursdays, with three days of ostensible rest per week,
and two teams to do the four operas; but the ostensible rest is devoted
largely to rehearsing.  It is said that the off days are devoted to
rehearsing from some time in the morning till ten at night.  Are there
two orchestras also?  It is quite likely, since there are one hundred and
ten names in the orchestra list.

Yesterday the opera was "Tristan and Isolde."  I have seen all sorts of
audiences--at theaters, operas, concerts, lectures, sermons,
funerals--but none which was twin to the Wagner audience of Bayreuth for
fixed and reverential attention.  Absolute attention and petrified
retention to the end of an act of the attitude assumed at the beginning
of it.  You detect no movement in the solid mass of heads and shoulders.
You seem to sit with the dead in the gloom of a tomb.  You know that they
are being stirred to their profoundest depths; that there are times when
they want to rise and wave handkerchiefs and shout their approbation, and
times when tears are running down their faces, and it would be a relief
to free their pent emotions in sobs or screams; yet you hear not one
utterance till the curtain swings together and the closing strains have
slowly faded out and died; then the dead rise with one impulse and shake
the building with their applause.  Every seat is full in the first act;
there is not a vacant one in the last.  If a man would be conspicuous,
let him come here and retire from the house in the midst of an act. It
would make him celebrated.

This audience reminds me of nothing I have ever seen and of nothing I
have read about except the city in the Arabian tale where all the
inhabitants have been turned to brass and the traveler finds them after
centuries mute, motionless, and still retaining the attitudes which they
last knew in life.  Here the Wagner audience dress as they please, and
sit in the dark and worship in silence.  At the Metropolitan in New York
they sit in a glare, and wear their showiest harness; they hum airs, they
squeak fans, they titter, and they gabble all the time.  In some of the
boxes the conversation and laughter are so loud as to divide the
attention of the house with the stage.  In large measure the Metropolitan
is a show-case for rich fashionables who are not trained in Wagnerian
music and have no reverence for it, but who like to promote art and show
their clothes.

Can that be an agreeable atmosphere to persons in whom this music
produces a sort of divine ecstasy and to whom its creator is a very
deity, his stage a temple, the works of his brain and hands consecrated
things, and the partaking of them with eye and ear a sacred solemnity?
Manifestly, no.  Then, perhaps the temporary expatriation, the tedious
traversing of seas and continents, the pilgrimage to Bayreuth stands
explained.  These devotees would worship in an atmosphere of devotion.
It is only here that they can find it without fleck or blemish or any
worldly pollution.  In this remote village there are no sights to see,
there is no newspaper to intrude the worries of the distant world, there
is nothing going on, it is always Sunday.  The pilgrim wends to his
temple out of town, sits out his moving service, returns to his bed with
his heart and soul and his body exhausted by long hours of tremendous
emotion, and he is in no fit condition to do anything but to lie torpid
and slowly gather back life and strength for the next service.  This
opera of "Tristan and Isolde" last night broke the hearts of all
witnesses who were of the faith, and I know of some who have heard of
many who could not sleep after it, but cried the night away.  I feel
strongly out of place here.  Sometimes I feel like the sane person in a
community of the mad; sometimes I feel like the one blind man where all
others see; the one groping savage in the college of the learned, and
always, during service, I feel like a heretic in heaven.

But by no means do I ever overlook or minify the fact that this is one of
the most extraordinary experiences of my life.  I have never seen
anything like this before.  I have never seen anything so great and fine
and real as this devotion.

FRIDAY.--Yesterday's opera was "Parsifal" again.  The others went and
they show marked advance in appreciation; but I went hunting for relics
and reminders of the Margravine Wilhelmina, she of the imperishable
"Memoirs."  I am properly grateful to her for her (unconscious) satire
upon monarchy and nobility, and therefore nothing which her hand touched
or her eye looked upon is indifferent to me.  I am her pilgrim; the rest
of this multitude here are Wagner's.

TUESDAY.--I have seen my last two operas; my season is ended, and we
cross over into Bohemia this afternoon.  I was supposing that my musical
regeneration was accomplished and perfected, because I enjoyed both of
these operas, singing and all, and, moreover, one of them was "Parsifal,"
but the experts have disenchanted me.  They say:

"Singing!  That wasn't singing; that was the wailing, screeching of
third-rate obscurities, palmed off on us in the interest of economy."

Well, I ought to have recognized the sign--the old, sure sign that has
never failed me in matters of art.  Whenever I enjoy anything in art it
means that it is mighty poor.  The private knowledge of this fact has
saved me from going to pieces with enthusiasm in front of many and many a
chromo.  However, my base instinct does bring me profit sometimes; I was
the only man out of thirty-two hundred who got his money back on those
two operas.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS



Is it true that the sun of a man's mentality touches noon at forty and
then begins to wane toward setting?  Doctor Osler is charged with saying
so.  Maybe he said it, maybe he didn't; I don't know which it is.  But if
he said it, I can point him to a case which proves his rule.  Proves it
by being an exception to it.  To this place I nominate Mr. Howells.

I read his VENETIAN DAYS about forty years ago.  I compare it with his
paper on Machiavelli in a late number of HARPER, and I cannot find that
his English has suffered any impairment.  For forty years his English has
been to me a continual delight and astonishment.  In the sustained
exhibition of certain great qualities--clearness, compression, verbal
exactness, and unforced and seemingly unconscious felicity of
phrasing--he is, in my belief, without his peer in the English-writing
world.  SUSTAINED. I entrench myself behind that protecting word.  There
are others who exhibit those great qualities as greatly as he does, but
only by intervaled distributions of rich moonlight, with stretches of
veiled and dimmer landscape between; whereas Howells's moon sails
cloudless skies all night and all the nights.

In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howells has no superior, I suppose.
He seems to be almost always able to find that elusive and shifty grain
of gold, the RIGHT WORD.  Others have to put up with approximations, more
or less frequently; he has better luck.  To me, the others are miners
working with the gold-pan--of necessity some of the gold washes over and
escapes; whereas, in my fancy, he is quicksilver raiding down a
riffle--no grain of the metal stands much chance of eluding him.  A
powerful agent is the right word: it lights the reader's way and makes it
plain; a close approximation to it will answer, and much traveling is
done in a well-enough fashion by its help, but we do not welcome it and
applaud it and rejoice in it as we do when THE right one blazes out on
us.  Whenever we come upon one of those intensely right words in a book
or a newspaper the resulting effect is physical as well as spiritual, and
electrically prompt: it tingles exquisitely around through the walls of
the mouth and tastes as tart and crisp and good as the autumn-butter that
creams the sumac-berry.  One has no time to examine the word and vote
upon its rank and standing, the automatic recognition of its supremacy is
so immediate.  There is a plenty of acceptable literature which deals
largely in approximations, but it may be likened to a fine landscape seen
through the rain; the right word would dismiss the rain, then you would
see it better.  It doesn't rain when Howells is at work.

And where does he get the easy and effortless flow of his speech? and its
cadenced and undulating rhythm? and its architectural felicities of
construction, its graces of expression, its pemmican quality of
compression, and all that? Born to him, no doubt.  All in shining good
order in the beginning, all extraordinary; and all just as shining, just
as extraordinary today, after forty years of diligent wear and tear and
use.  He passed his fortieth year long and long ago; but I think his
English of today--his perfect English, I wish to say--can throw down the
glove before his English of that antique time and not be afraid.

I will got back to the paper on Machiavelli now, and ask the reader to
examine this passage from it which I append.  I do not mean examine it in
a bird's-eye way; I mean search it, study it. And, of course, read it
aloud.  I may be wrong, still it is my conviction that one cannot get out
of finely wrought literature all that is in it by reading it mutely:

Mr. Dyer is rather of the opinion, first luminously suggested by
Macaulay, that Machiavelli was in earnest, but must not be judged as a
political moralist of our time and race would be judged.  He thinks that
Machiavelli was in earnest, as none but an idealist can be, and he is the
first to imagine him an idealist immersed in realities, who involuntarily
transmutes the events under his eye into something like the visionary
issues of reverie.  The Machiavelli whom he depicts does not cease to be
politically a republican and socially a just man because he holds up an
atrocious despot like Caesar Borgia as a mirror for rulers. What
Machiavelli beheld round him in Italy was a civic disorder in which there
was oppression without statecraft, and revolt without patriotism.  When a
miscreant like Borgia appeared upon the scene and reduced both tyrants
and rebels to an apparent quiescence, he might very well seem to such a
dreamer the savior of society whom a certain sort of dreamers are always
looking for.  Machiavelli was no less honest when he honored the
diabolical force than Carlyle was when at different times he extolled the
strong man who destroys liberty in creating order. But Carlyle has only
just ceased to be mistaken for a reformer, while it is still
Machiavelli's hard fate to be so trammeled in his material that his name
stands for whatever is most malevolent and perfidious in human nature.

You see how easy and flowing it is; how unvexed by ruggednesses,
clumsinesses, broken meters; how simple and--so far as you or I can make
out--unstudied; how clear, how limpid, how understandable, how unconfused
by cross-currents, eddies, undertows; how seemingly unadorned, yet is all
adornment, like the lily-of-the-valley; and how compressed, how compact,
without a complacency-signal hung out anywhere to call attention to it.

There are twenty-three lines in the quoted passage.  After reading it
several times aloud, one perceives that a good deal of matter is crowded
into that small space.  I think it is a model of compactness.  When I
take its materials apart and work them over and put them together in my
way, I find I cannot crowd the result back into the same hole, there not
being room enough.  I find it a case of a woman packing a man's trunk: he
can get the things out, but he can't ever get them back again.

The proffered paragraph is a just and fair sample; the rest of the
article is as compact as it is; there are no waste words. The sample is
just in other ways: limpid, fluent, graceful, and rhythmical as it is, it
holds no superiority in these respects over the rest of the essay.  Also,
the choice phrasing noticeable in the sample is not lonely; there is a
plenty of its kin distributed through the other paragraphs.  This is
claiming much when that kin must face the challenge of a phrase like the
one in the middle sentence: "an idealist immersed in realities who
involuntarily transmutes the events under his eye into something like the
visionary issues of reverie."  With a hundred words to do it with, the
literary artisan could catch that airy thought and tie it down and reduce
it to a concrete condition, visible, substantial, understandable and all
right, like a cabbage; but the artist does it with twenty, and the result
is a flower.

The quoted phrase, like a thousand others that have come from the same
source, has the quality of certain scraps of verse which take hold of us
and stay in our memories, we do not understand why, at first: all the
words being the right words, none of them is conspicuous, and so they all
seem inconspicuous, therefore we wonder what it is about them that makes
their message take hold.

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the
tomb.

It is like a dreamy strain of moving music, with no sharp notes in it.
The words are all "right" words, and all the same size.  We do not notice
it at first.  We get the effect, it goes straight home to us, but we do
not know why.  It is when the right words are conspicuous that they
thunder:

The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome!

When I got back from Howells old to Howells young I find him arranging
and clustering English words well, but not any better than now.  He is
not more felicitous in concreting abstractions now than he was in
translating, then, the visions of the eyes of flesh into words that
reproduced their forms and colors:

In Venetian streets they give the fallen snow no rest.  It is at once
shoveled into the canals by hundreds of half-naked FACCHINI; and now in
St. Mark's Place the music of innumerable shovels smote upon my ear; and
I saw the shivering legion of poverty as it engaged the elements in a
struggle for the possession of the Piazza.  But the snow continued to
fall, and through the twilight of the descending flakes all this toil and
encountered looked like that weary kind of effort in dreams, when the
most determined industry seems only to renew the task.  The lofty crest
of the bell-tower was hidden in the folds of falling snow, and I could no
longer see the golden angel upon its summit. But looked at across the
Piazza, the beautiful outline of St. Mark's Church was perfectly penciled
in the air, and the shifting threads of the snowfall were woven into a
spell of novel enchantment around the structure that always seemed to me
too exquisite in its fantastic loveliness to be anything but the creation
of magic.  The tender snow had compassionated the beautiful edifice for
all the wrongs of time, and so hid the stains and ugliness of decay that
it looked as if just from the hand of the builder--or, better said, just
from the brain of the architect.  There was marvelous freshness in the
colors of the mosaics in the great arches of the facade, and all that
gracious harmony into which the temple rises, or marble scrolls and leafy
exuberance airily supporting the statues of the saints, was a hundred
times etherealized by the purity and whiteness of the drifting flakes.
The snow lay lightly on the golden gloves that tremble like
peacocks-crests above the vast domes, and plumed them with softest white;
it robed the saints in ermine; and it danced over all its works, as if
exulting in its beauty--beauty which filled me with subtle, selfish
yearning to keep such evanescent loveliness for the little-while-longer
of my whole life, and with despair to think that even the poor lifeless
shadow of it could never be fairly reflected in picture or poem.

Through the wavering snowfall, the Saint Theodore upon one of the granite
pillars of the Piazzetta did not show so grim as his wont is, and the
winged lion on the other might have been a winged lamb, so gentle and
mild he looked by the tender light of the storm.  The towers of the
island churches loomed faint and far away in the dimness; the sailors in
the rigging of the ships that lay in the Basin wrought like phantoms
among the shrouds; the gondolas stole in and out of the opaque distance
more noiselessly and dreamily than ever; and a silence, almost palpable,
lay upon the mutest city in the world.

The spirit of Venice is there: of a city where Age and Decay, fagged
with distributing damage and repulsiveness among the other cities of the
planet in accordance with the policy and business of their profession,
come for rest and play between seasons, and treat themselves to the
luxury and relaxation of sinking the shop and inventing and squandering
charms all about, instead of abolishing such as they find, as it their
habit when not on vacation.

In the working season they do business in Boston sometimes, and a
character in THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY takes accurate note of pathetic
effects wrought by them upon the aspects of a street of once dignified
and elegant homes whose occupants have moved away and left them a prey to
neglect and gradual ruin and progressive degradation; a descent which
reaches bottom at last, when the street becomes a roost for humble
professionals of the faith-cure and fortune-telling sort.

What a queer, melancholy house, what a queer, melancholy street!  I
don't think I was ever in a street before when quite so many professional
ladies, with English surnames, preferred Madam to Mrs. on their
door-plates.  And the poor old place has such a desperately conscious air
of going to the deuce.  Every house seems to wince as you go by, and
button itself up to the chin for fear you should find out it had no shirt
on--so to speak.  I don't know what's the reason, but these material
tokens of a social decay afflict me terribly; a tipsy woman isn't
dreadfuler than a haggard old house, that's once been a home, in a street
like this.

Mr. Howells's pictures are not mere stiff, hard, accurate photographs;
they are photographs with feeling in them, and sentiment, photographs
taken in a dream, one might say.

As concerns his humor, I will not try to say anything, yet I would try,
if I had the words that might approximately reach up to its high place.
I do not think any one else can play with humorous fancies so gracefully
and delicately and deliciously as he does, nor has so many to play with,
nor can come so near making them look as if they were doing the playing
themselves and he was not aware that they were at it.  For they are
unobtrusive, and quiet in their ways, and well conducted.  His is a humor
which flows softly all around about and over and through the mesh of the
page, pervasive, refreshing, health-giving, and makes no more show and no
more noise than does the circulation of the blood.

There is another thing which is contentingly noticeable in Mr. Howells's
books.  That is his "stage directions"--those artifices which authors
employ to throw a kind of human naturalness around a scene and a
conversation, and help the reader to see the one and get at meanings in
the other which might not be perceived if entrusted unexplained to the
bare words of the talk.  Some authors overdo the stage directions, they
elaborate them quite beyond necessity; they spend so much time and take
up so much room in telling us how a person said a thing and how he looked
and acted when he said it that we get tired and vexed and wish he hadn't
said it all.  Other authors' directions are brief enough, but it is
seldom that the brevity contains either wit or information.  Writers of
this school go in rags, in the matter of state directions; the majority
of them having nothing in stock but a cigar, a laugh, a blush, and a
bursting into tears.  In their poverty they work these sorry things to
the bone.  They say:

". . . replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar." (This explains
nothing; it only wastes space.)

". . . responded Richard, with a laugh."  (There was nothing to laugh
about; there never is.  The writer puts it in from habit--automatically;
he is paying no attention to his work; or he would see that there is
nothing to laugh at; often, when a remark is unusually and poignantly
flat and silly, he tries to deceive the reader by enlarging the stage
direction and making Richard break into "frenzies of uncontrollable
laughter."  This makes the reader sad.)

". . . murmured Gladys, blushing."  (This poor old shop-worn blush is a
tiresome thing.  We get so we would rather Gladys would fall out of the
book and break her neck than do it again. She is always doing it, and
usually irrelevantly.  Whenever it is her turn to murmur she hangs out
her blush; it is the only thing she's got.  In a little while we hate
her, just as we do Richard.)

". . . repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears."  (This kind keep a book
damp all the time.  They can't say a thing without crying.  They cry so
much about nothing that by and by when they have something to cry ABOUT
they have gone dry; they sob, and fetch nothing; we are not moved.  We
are only glad.)

They gavel me, these stale and overworked stage directions, these carbon
films that got burnt out long ago and cannot now carry any faintest
thread of light.  It would be well if they could be relieved from duty
and flung out in the literary back yard to rot and disappear along with
the discarded and forgotten "steeds" and "halidomes" and similar
stage-properties once so dear to our grandfathers.  But I am friendly to
Mr. Howells's stage directions; more friendly to them than to any one
else's, I think.  They are done with a competent and discriminating art,
and are faithful to the requirements of a state direction's proper and
lawful office, which is to inform.  Sometimes they convey a scene and its
conditions so well that I believe I could see the scene and get the
spirit and meaning of the accompanying dialogue if some one would read
merely the stage directions to me and leave out the talk.  For instance,
a scene like this, from THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY:

". . . and she laid her arms with a beseeching gesture on her father's
shoulder."

". . . she answered, following his gesture with a glance."

". . . she said, laughing nervously."

". . . she asked, turning swiftly upon him that strange, searching
glance."

". . . she answered, vaguely."

". . . she reluctantly admitted."

". . . but her voice died wearily away, and she stood looking into his
face with puzzled entreaty."

Mr. Howells does not repeat his forms, and does not need to; he can
invent fresh ones without limit.  It is mainly the repetition over and
over again, by the third-rates, of worn and commonplace and juiceless
forms that makes their novels such a weariness and vexation to us, I
think.  We do not mind one or two deliveries of their wares, but as we
turn the pages over and keep on meeting them we presently get tired of
them and wish they would do other things for a change.

". . . replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar."

". . . responded Richard, with a laugh."

". . . murmured Gladys, blushing."

". . . repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears."

". . . replied the Earl, flipping the ash from his cigar."

". . . responded the undertaker, with a laugh."

". . . murmured the chambermaid, blushing."

". . . repeated the burglar, bursting into tears."

". . . replied the conductor, flipping the ash from his cigar."

". . . responded Arkwright, with a laugh."

". . . murmured the chief of police, blushing."

". . . repeated the house-cat, bursting into tears."

And so on and so on; till at last it ceases to excite.  I always notice
stage directions, because they fret me and keep me trying to get out of
their way, just as the automobiles do.  At first; then by and by they
become monotonous and I get run over.

Mr. Howells has done much work, and the spirit of it is as beautiful as
the make of it.  I have held him in admiration and affection so many
years that I know by the number of those years that he is old now; but
his heart isn't, nor his pen; and years do not count.  Let him have
plenty of them; there is profit in them for us.





ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT

In the appendix to Croker's Boswell's Johnson one finds this anecdote:

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.--One day Mrs. Gastrel set a little girl to repeat to
him [Dr. Samuel Johnson] Cato's Soliloquy, which she went through very
correctly.  The Doctor, after a pause, asked the child:

"What was to bring Cato to an end?"

She said it was a knife.

"No, my dear, it was not so."

"My aunt Polly said it was a knife."

"Why, Aunt Polly's knife MAY DO, but it was a DAGGER, my dear."

He then asked her the meaning of "bane and antidote," which she was
unable to give.  Mrs. Gastrel said:

"You cannot expect so young a child to know the meaning of such words."

He then said:

"My dear, how many pence are there in SIXPENCE?"

"I cannot tell, sir," was the half-terrified reply.

On this, addressing himself to Mrs. Gastrel, he said:

"Now, my dear lady, can anything be more ridiculous than to teach a child
Cato's Soliloquy, who does not know how many pence there are in a
sixpence?"

In a lecture before the Royal Geographical Society Professor Ravenstein
quoted the following list of frantic questions, and said that they had
been asked in an examination:

Mention all names of places in the world derived from Julius Caesar or
Augustus Caesar.

Where are the following rivers: Pisuerga, Sakaria, Guadalete, Jalon,
Mulde?

All you know of the following: Machacha, Pilmo, Schebulos, Crivoscia,
Basces, Mancikert, Taxhem, Citeaux, Meloria, Zutphen.

The highest peaks of the Karakorum range.

The number of universities in Prussia.

Why are the tops of mountains continually covered with snow [sic]?

Name the length and breadth of the streams of lava which issued from the
Skaptar Jokul in the eruption of 1783.

That list would oversize nearly anybody's geographical knowledge.  Isn't
it reasonably possible that in our schools many of the questions in all
studies are several miles ahead of where the pupil is?--that he is set to
struggle with things that are ludicrously beyond his present reach,
hopelessly beyond his present strength?  This remark in passing, and by
way of text; now I come to what I was going to say.

I have just now fallen upon a darling literary curiosity. It is a little
book, a manuscript compilation, and the compiler sent it to me with the
request that I say whether I think it ought to be published or not.  I
said, Yes; but as I slowly grow wise I briskly grow cautious; and so, now
that the publication is imminent, it has seemed to me that I should feel
more comfortable if I could divide up this responsibility with the public
by adding them to the court.  Therefore I will print some extracts from
the book, in the hope that they may make converts to my judgment that the
volume has merit which entitles it to publication.

As to its character.  Every one has sampled "English as She is Spoke" and
"English as She is Wrote"; this little volume furnishes us an instructive
array of examples of "English as She is Taught"--in the public schools
of--well, this country.  The collection is made by a teacher in those
schools, and all the examples in it are genuine; none of them have been
tampered with, or doctored in any way.  From time to time, during several
years, whenever a pupil has delivered himself of anything peculiarly
quaint or toothsome in the course of his recitations, this teacher and
her associates have privately set that thing down in a memorandum-book;
strictly following the original, as to grammar, construction, spelling,
and all; and the result is this literary curiosity.

The contents of the book consist mainly of answers given by the boys and
girls to questions, said answers being given sometimes verbally,
sometimes in writing.  The subjects touched upon are fifteen in number:
I. Etymology; II. Grammar; III. Mathematics; IV. Geography; V.
"Original"; VI. Analysis; VII. History; VIII. "Intellectual"; IX.
Philosophy; X. Physiology; XI. Astronomy; XII. Politics; XIII. Music;
XIV. Oratory; XV. Metaphysics.

You perceive that the poor little young idea has taken a shot at a good
many kinds of game in the course of the book.  Now as to results.  Here
are some quaint definitions of words.  It will be noticed that in all of
these instances the sound of the word, or the look of it on paper, has
misled the child:

ABORIGINES, a system of mountains.

ALIAS, a good man in the Bible.

AMENABLE, anything that is mean.

AMMONIA, the food of the gods.

ASSIDUITY, state of being an acid.

AURIFEROUS, pertaining to an orifice.

CAPILLARY, a little caterpillar.

CORNIFEROUS, rocks in which fossil corn is found.

EMOLUMENT, a headstone to a grave.

EQUESTRIAN, one who asks questions.

EUCHARIST, one who plays euchre.

FRANCHISE, anything belonging to the French.

IDOLATER, a very idle person.

IPECAC, a man who likes a good dinner.

IRRIGATE, to make fun of.

MENDACIOUS, what can be mended.

MERCENARY, one who feels for another.

PARASITE, a kind of umbrella.

PARASITE, the murder of an infant.

PUBLICAN, a man who does his prayers in public.

TENACIOUS, ten acres of land.

Here is one where the phrase "publicans and sinners" has got mixed up in
the child's mind with politics, and the result is a definition which
takes one in a sudden and unexpected way:

REPUBLICAN, a sinner mentioned in the Bible.

Also in Democratic newspapers now and then.  Here are two where the
mistake has resulted from sound assisted by remote fact:

PLAGIARIST, a writer of plays.

DEMAGOGUE, a vessel containing beer and other liquids.

I cannot quite make out what it was that misled the pupil in the
following instances; it would not seem to have been the sound of the
word, nor the look of it in print:

ASPHYXIA, a grumbling, fussy temper.

QUARTERNIONS, a bird with a flat beak and no bill, living in New Zealand.

QUARTERNIONS, the name given to a style of art practiced by the
Phoenicians.

QUARTERNIONS, a religious convention held every hundred years.

SIBILANT, the state of being idiotic.

CROSIER, a staff carried by the Deity.

In the following sentences the pupil's ear has been deceiving him again:

The marriage was illegible.

He was totally dismasted with the whole performance.

He enjoys riding on a philosopher.

She was very quick at repertoire.

He prayed for the waters to subsidize.

The leopard is watching his sheep.

They had a strawberry vestibule.

Here is one which--well, now, how often we do slam right into the truth
without ever suspecting it:

The men employed by the Gas Company go around and speculate the meter.

Indeed they do, dear; and when you grow up, many and many's the time you
will notice it in the gas bill.  In the following sentences the little
people have some information to convey, every time; but in my case they
fail to connect: the light always went out on the keystone word:

The coercion of some things is remarkable; as bread and molasses.

Her hat is contiguous because she wears it on one side.

He preached to an egregious congregation.

The captain eliminated a bullet through the man's heart.

You should take caution and be precarious.

The supercilious girl acted with vicissitude when the perennial time
came.

The last is a curiously plausible sentence; one seems to know what it
means, and yet he knows all the time that he doesn't.  Here is an odd
(but entirely proper) use of a word, and a most sudden descent from a
lofty philosophical altitude to a very practical and homely illustration:

We should endeavor to avoid extremes--like those of wasps and bees.

And here--with "zoological" and "geological" in his mind, but not ready
to his tongue--the small scholar has innocently gone and let out a couple
of secrets which ought never to have been divulged in any circumstances:

There are a good many donkeys in theological gardens.

Some of the best fossils are found in theological gardens.

Under the head of "Grammar" the little scholars furnish the following
information:

Gender is the distinguishing nouns without regard to sex.

A verb is something to eat.

Adverbs should always be used as adjectives and adjectives as adverbs.

Every sentence and name of God must begin with a caterpillar.

"Caterpillar" is well enough, but capital letter would have been
stricter.  The following is a brave attempt at a solution, but it failed
to liquify:

When they are going to say some prose or poetry before they say the
poetry or prose they must put a semicolon just after the introduction of
the prose or poetry.

The chapter on "Mathematics" is full of fruit.  From it I take a few
samples--mainly in an unripe state:

A straight line is any distance between two places.

Parallel lines are lines that can never meet until they run together.

A circle is a round straight line with a hole in the middle.

Things which are equal to each other are equal to anything else.

To find the number of square feet in a room you multiply the room by the
number of the feet.  The product is the result.

Right you are.  In the matter of geography this little book is
unspeakably rich.  The questions do not appear to have applied the
microscope to the subject, as did those quoted by Professor Ravenstein;
still, they proved plenty difficult enough without that.  These pupils
did not hunt with a microscope, they hunted with a shot-gun; this is
shown by the crippled condition of the game they brought in:

America is divided into the Passiffic slope and the Mississippi valey.

North America is separated by Spain.

America consists from north to south about five hundred miles.

The United States is quite a small country compared with some other
countrys, but it about as industrious.

The capital of the United States is Long Island.

The five seaports of the U.S. are Newfunlan and Sanfrancisco.

The principal products of the U.S. is earthquakes and volcanoes.

The Alaginnies are mountains in Philadelphia.

The Rocky Mountains are on the western side of Philadelphia.

Cape Hateras is a vast body of water surrounded by land and flowing into
the Gulf of Mexico.

Mason and Dixon's line is the Equator.

One of the leading industries of the United States is mollasses,
book-covers, numbers, gas, teaching, lumber, manufacturers, paper-making,
publishers, coal.

In Austria the principal occupation is gathering Austrich feathers.

Gibraltar is an island built on a rock.

Russia is very cold and tyrannical.

Sicily is one of the Sandwich Islands.

Hindoostan flows through the Ganges and empties into the Mediterranean
Sea.

Ireland is called the Emigrant Isle because it is so beautiful and green.

The width of the different zones Europe lies in depend upon the
surrounding country.

The imports of a country are the things that are paid for, the exports
are the things that are not.

Climate lasts all the time and weather only a few days.

The two most famous volcanoes of Europe are Sodom and Gomorrah.

The chapter headed "Analysis" shows us that the pupils in our public
schools are not merely loaded up with those showy facts about geography,
mathematics, and so on, and left in that incomplete state; no, there's
machinery for clarifying and expanding their minds.  They are required to
take poems and analyze them, dig out their common sense, reduce them to
statistics, and reproduce them in a luminous prose translation which
shall tell you at a glance what the poet was trying to get at.  One
sample will do.  Here is a stanza from "The Lady of the Lake," followed
by the pupil's impressive explanation of it:

Alone, but with unbated zeal, The horseman plied with scourge and steel;
For jaded now and spent with toil, Embossed with foam and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strained full in
view.

The man who rode on the horse performed the whip and an instrument made
of steel alone with strong ardor not diminishing, for, being tired from
the time passed with hard labor overworked with anger and ignorant with
weariness, while every breath for labor he drew with cries full or
sorrow, the young deer made imperfect who worked hard filtered in sight.

I see, now, that I never understood that poem before.  I have had
glimpses of its meaning, it moments when I was not as ignorant with
weariness as usual, but this is the first time the whole spacious idea of
it ever filtered in sight.  If I were a public-school pupil I would put
those other studies aside and stick to analysis; for, after all, it is
the thing to spread your mind.

We come now to historical matters, historical remains, one might say.  As
one turns the pages he is impressed with the depth to which one date has
been driven into the American child's head--1492.  The date is there,
and it is there to stay.  And it is always at hand, always deliverable at
a moment's notice.  But the Fact that belongs with it?  That is quite
another matter.  Only the date itself is familiar and sure: its vast Fact
has failed of lodgment.  It would appear that whenever you ask a
public-school pupil when a thing--anything, no matter what--happened,and
he is in doubt, he always rips out his 1492.  He applies it to
everything, from the landing of the ark to the introduction of the
horse-car.  Well, after all, it is our first date, and so it is right
enough to honor it, and pay the public schools to teach our children to
honor it:

George Washington was born in 1492.

Washington wrote the Declaration of Independence in 1492.

St. Bartholemew was massacred in 1492.

The Brittains were the Saxons who entered England in 1492 under Julius
Caesar.

The earth is 1492 miles in circumference.



To proceed with "History"

Christopher Columbus was called the Father of his Country.

Queen Isabella of Spain sold her watch and chain and other millinery so
that Columbus could discover America.

The Indian wars were very desecrating to the country.

The Indians pursued their warfare by hiding in the bushes and then
scalping them.

Captain John Smith has been styled the father of his country. His life
was saved by his daughter Pochahantas.

The Puritans found an insane asylum in the wilds of America.

The Stamp Act was to make everybody stamp all materials so they should be
null and void.

Washington died in Spain almost broken-hearted.  His remains were taken
to the cathedral in Havana.

Gorilla warfare was where men rode on gorillas.

John Brown was a very good insane man who tried to get fugitives slaves
into Virginia.  He captured all the inhabitants, but was finally
conquered and condemned to his death.  The confederasy was formed by the
fugitive slaves.

Alfred the Great reigned 872 years.  He was distinguished for letting
some buckwheat cakes burn, and the lady scolded him.

Henry Eight was famous for being a great widower haveing lost several
wives.

Lady Jane Grey studied Greek and Latin and was beheaded after a few days.

John Bright is noted for an incurable disease.

Lord James Gordon Bennet instigated the Gordon Riots.

The Middle Ages come in between antiquity and posterity.

Luther introduced Christianity into England a good many thousand years
ago.  His birthday was November 1883.  He was once a Pope.  He lived at
the time of the Rebellion of Worms.

Julius Caesar is noted for his famous telegram dispatch I came I saw I
conquered.

Julius Caesar was really a very great man.  He was a very great soldier
and wrote a book for beginners in the Latin.

Cleopatra was caused by the death of an asp which she dissolved in a wine
cup.

The only form of government in Greece was a limited monkey.

The Persian war lasted about 500 years.

Greece had only 7 wise men.

Socrates . . . destroyed some statues and had to drink Shamrock.

Here is a fact correctly stated; and yet it is phrased with such
ingenious infelicity that it can be depended upon to convey
misinformation every time it is uncarefully unread:

By the Salic law no woman or descendant of a woman could occupy the
throne.

To show how far a child can travel in history with judicious and
diligent boosting in the public school, we select the following mosaic:

Abraham Lincoln was born in Wales in 1599.

In the chapter headed "Intellectual" I find a great number of most
interesting statements.  A sample or two may be found not amiss:

Bracebridge Hall was written by Henry Irving.

Show Bound was written by Peter Cooper.

The House of the Seven Gables was written by Lord Bryant.

Edgar A. Poe was a very curdling writer.

Cotton Mather was a writer who invented the cotten gin and wrote
histories.

Beowulf wrote the Scriptures.

Ben Johnson survived Shakspeare in some respects.

In the Canterbury Tale it gives account of King Alfred on his way to the
shrine of Thomas Bucket.

Chaucer was the father of English pottery.

Chaucer was a bland verse writer of the third century.

Chaucer was succeeded by H. Wads. Longfellow an American Writer.  His
writings were chiefly prose and nearly one hundred years elapsed.

Shakspere translated the Scriptures and it was called St. James because
he did it.

In the middle of the chapter I find many pages of information concerning
Shakespeare's plays, Milton's works, and those of Bacon, Addison, Samuel
Johnson, Fielding, Richardson, Sterne, Smollett, De Foe, Locke, Pope,
Swift, Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Gibbon, Byron, Coleridge,
Hood, Scott, Macaulay, George Eliot, Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray,
Browning, Mrs. Browning, Tennyson, and Disraeli--a fact which shows that
into the restricted stomach of the public-school pupil is shoveled every
year the blood, bone, and viscera of a gigantic literature, and the same
is there digested and disposed of in a most successful and characteristic
and gratifying public-school way.  I have space for but a trifling few of
the results:

Lord Byron was the son of an heiress and a drunken man.

Wm. Wordsworth wrote the Barefoot Boy and Imitations on Immortality.

Gibbon wrote a history of his travels in Italy.  This was original.

George Eliot left a wife and children who mourned greatly for his genius.

George Eliot Miss Mary Evans Mrs. Cross Mrs. Lewis was the greatest
female poet unless George Sands is made an exception of.

Bulwell is considered a good writer.

Sir Walter Scott Charles Bronte Alfred the Great and Johnson were the
first great novelists.

Thomas Babington Makorlay graduated at Harvard and then studied law, he
was raised to the peerage as baron in 1557 and died in 1776.

Here are two or three miscellaneous facts that may be of value, if taken
in moderation:

Homer's writings are Homer's Essays Virgil the Aenid and Paradise lost
some people say that these poems were not written by Homer but by another
man of the same name.

A sort of sadness kind of shone in Bryant's poems.

Holmes is a very profligate and amusing writer.

When the public-school pupil wrestles with the political features of the
Great Republic, they throw him sometimes:

A bill becomes a law when the President vetoes it.

The three departments of the government is the President rules the world,
the governor rules the State, the mayor rules the city.

The first conscientious Congress met in Philadelphia.

The Constitution of the United States was established to ensure domestic
hostility.

Truth crushed to earth will rise again.  As follows:

The Constitution of the United States is that part of the book at the
end which nobody reads.

And here she rises once more and untimely.  There should be a limit to
public-school instruction; it cannot be wise or well to let the young
find out everything:

Congress is divided into civilized half civilized and savage.

Here are some results of study in music and oratory:

An interval in music is the distance on the keyboard from one piano to
the next.

A rest means you are not to sing it.

Emphasis is putting more distress on one word than another.

The chapter on "Physiology" contains much that ought not to be lost to
science:

Physillogigy is to study about your bones stummick and vertebry.

Occupations which are injurious to health are cabolic acid gas which is
impure blood.

We have an upper and lower skin.  The lower skin moves all the time and
the upper skin moves when we do.

The body is mostly composed of water and about one half is avaricious
tissue.

The stomach is a small pear-shaped bone situated in the body.

The gastric juice keeps the bones from creaking.

The Chyle flows up the middle of the backbone and reaches the heart where
it meets the oxygen and is purified.

The salivary glands are used to salivate the body.

In the stomach starch is changed to cane sugar and cane sugar to sugar
cane.

The olfactory nerve enters the cavity of the orbit and is developed into
the special sense of hearing.

The growth of a tooth begins in the back of the mouth and extends to the
stomach.

If we were on a railroad track and a train was coming the train would
deafen our ears so that we couldn't see to get off the track.

If, up to this point, none of my quotations have added flavor to the
Johnsonian anecdote at the head of this article, let us make another
attempt:

The theory that intuitive truths are discovered by the light of nature
originated from St. John's interpretation of a passage in the Gospel of
Plato.

The weight of the earth is found by comparing a mass of known lead with
that of a mass of unknown lead.

To find the weight of the earth take the length of a degree on a meridian
and multiply by 6 1/2 pounds.

The spheres are to each other as the squares of their homologous sides.

A body will go just as far in the first second as the body will go plus
the force of gravity and that's equal to twice what the body will go.

Specific gravity is the weight to be compared weight of an equal volume
of or that is the weight of a body compared with the weight of an equal
volume.

The law of fluid pressure divide the different forms of organized bodies
by the form of attraction and the number increased will be the form.

Inertia is that property of bodies by virtue of which it cannot change
its own condition of rest or motion.  In other words it is the negative
quality of passiveness either in recoverable latency or insipient
latescence.

If a laugh is fair here, not the struggling child, nor the unintelligent
teacher--or rather the unintelligent Boards, Committees, and
Trustees--are the proper target for it.  All through this little book one
detects the signs of a certain probable fact--that a large part of the
pupil's "instruction" consists in cramming him with obscure and wordy
"rules" which he does not understand and has no time to understand.  It
would be as useful to cram him with brickbats; they would at least stay.
In a town in the interior of New York, a few years ago, a gentleman set
forth a mathematical problem and proposed to give a prize to every
public-school pupil who should furnish the correct solution of it.
Twenty-two of the brightest boys in the public schools entered the
contest.  The problem was not a very difficult one for pupils of their
mathematical rank and standing, yet they all failed--by a hair--through
one trifling mistake or another.  Some searching questions were asked,
when it turned out that these lads were as glib as parrots with the
"rules," but could not reason out a single rule or explain the principle
underlying it.  Their memories had been stocked, but not their
understandings.  It was a case of brickbat culture, pure and simple.

There are several curious "compositions" in the little book, and we must
make room for one.  It is full of naivete, brutal truth, and
unembarrassed directness, and is the funniest (genuine) boy's composition
I think I have ever seen:



ON GIRLS

Girls are very stuck up and dignefied in their maner and be have your.
They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and
rags.  They cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid of
guns.  They stay at home all the time and go to church on Sunday.  They
are al-ways sick.  They are always funy and making fun of boy's hands and
they say how dirty. They cant play marbels.  I pity them poor things.
They make fun of boys and then turn round and love them.  I dont beleave
they ever kiled a cat or anything.  They look out every nite and say oh
ant the moon lovely.  Thir is one thing I have not told and that is they
al-ways now their lessons bettern boys.

From Mr. Edward Channing's recent article in SCIENCE:

The marked difference between the books now being produced by French,
English, and American travelers, on the one hand, and German explorers,
on the other, is too great to escape attention. That difference is due
entirely to the fact that in school and university the German is taught,
in the first place to see, and in the second place to understand what he
does see.





A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET

(This article, written during the autumn of 1899, was about the last
writing done by Mark Twain on any impersonal subject.)

I have had a kindly feeling, a friendly feeling, a cousinly feeling
toward Simplified Spelling, from the beginning of the movement three
years ago, but nothing more inflamed than that. It seemed to me to merely
propose to substitute one inadequacy for another; a sort of patching and
plugging poor old dental relics with cement and gold and porcelain paste;
what was really needed was a new set of teeth.  That is to say, a new
ALPHABET.

The heart of our trouble is with our foolish alphabet.  It doesn't know
how to spell, and can't be taught.  In this it is like all other
alphabets except one--the phonographic.  This is the only competent
alphabet in the world.  It can spell and correctly pronounce any word in
our language.

That admirable alphabet, that brilliant alphabet, that inspired alphabet,
can be learned in an hour or two.  In a week the student can learn to
write it with some little facility, and to read it with considerable
ease.  I know, for I saw it tried in a public school in Nevada forty-five
years ago, and was so impressed by the incident that it has remained in
my memory ever since.

I wish we could adopt it in place of our present written (and printed)
character.  I mean SIMPLY the alphabet; simply the consonants and the
vowels--I don't mean any REDUCTIONS or abbreviations of them, such as the
shorthand writer uses in order to get compression and speed.  No, I would
SPELL EVERY WORD OUT.

I will insert the alphabet here as I find it in Burnz's PHONIC SHORTHAND.
[Figure 1]  It is arranged on the basis of Isaac Pitman's PHONOGRAPHY.
Isaac Pitman was the originator and father of scientific phonography.  It
is used throughout the globe.  It was a memorable invention.  He made it
public seventy-three years ago.  The firm of Isaac Pitman & Sons, New
York, still exists, and they continue the master's work.

What should we gain?

First of all, we could spell DEFINITELY--and correctly--any word you
please, just by the SOUND of it.  We can't do that with our present
alphabet.  For instance, take a simple, every-day word PHTHISIS.  If we
tried to spell it by the sound of it, we should make it TYSIS, and be
laughed at by every educated person.

Secondly, we should gain in REDUCTION OF LABOR in writing.

Simplified Spelling makes valuable reductions in the case of several
hundred words, but the new spelling must be LEARNED.  You can't spell
them by the sound; you must get them out of the book.

But even if we knew the simplified form for every word in the language,
the phonographic alphabet would still beat the Simplified Speller "hands
down" in the important matter of economy of labor.  I will illustrate:

PRESENT FORM: through, laugh, highland.

SIMPLIFIED FORM: thru, laff, hyland.

PHONOGRAPHIC FORM: [Figure 2]

To write the word "through," the pen has to make twenty-one strokes.

To write the word "thru," then pen has to make twelve strokes--a good
saving.

To write that same word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to
make only THREE strokes.

To write the word "laugh," the pen has to make FOURTEEN strokes.

To write "laff," the pen has to make the SAME NUMBER of strokes--no labor
is saved to the penman.

To write the same word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to
make only THREE strokes.

To write the word "highland," the pen has to make twenty-two strokes.

To write "hyland," the pen has to make eighteen strokes.

To write that word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to make
only FIVE strokes.  [Figure 3]

To write the words "phonographic alphabet," the pen has to make
fifty-three strokes.

To write "fonografic alfabet," the pen has to make fifty strokes. To the
penman, the saving in labor is insignificant.

To write that word (with vowels) with the phonographic alphabet, the pen
has to make only SEVENTEEN strokes.

Without the vowels, only THIRTEEN strokes. [Figure 4]  The vowels are
hardly necessary, this time.

We make five pen-strokes in writing an m.  Thus: [Figure 5] a stroke
down; a stroke up; a second stroke down; a second stroke up; a final
stroke down.  Total, five.  The phonographic alphabet accomplishes the m
with a single stroke--a curve, like a parenthesis that has come home
drunk and has fallen face down right at the front door where everybody
that goes along will see him and say, Alas!

When our written m is not the end of a word, but is otherwise located, it
has to be connected with the next letter, and that requires another
pen-stroke, making six in all, before you get rid of that m.  But never
mind about the connecting strokes--let them go.  Without counting them,
the twenty-six letters of our alphabet consumed about eighty pen-strokes
for their construction--about three pen-strokes per letter.

It is THREE TIMES THE NUMBER required by the phonographic alphabet.  It
requires but ONE stroke for each letter.

My writing-gait is--well, I don't know what it is, but I will time myself
and see.  Result: it is twenty-four words per minute.  I don't mean
composing; I mean COPYING.  There isn't any definite composing-gait.

Very well, my copying-gait is 1,440 words per hour--say 1,500.  If I
could use the phonographic character with facility I could do the 1,500
in twenty minutes.  I could do nine hours' copying in three hours; I
could do three years' copying in one year.  Also, if I had a typewriting
machine with the phonographic alphabet on it--oh, the miracles I could
do!

I am not pretending to write that character well.  I have never had a
lesson, and I am copying the letters from the book. But I can accomplish
my desire, at any rate, which is, to make the reader get a good and clear
idea of the advantage it would be to us if we could discard our present
alphabet and put this better one in its place--using it in books,
newspapers, with the typewriter, and with the pen.

[Figure 6]--MAN DOG HORSE.  I think it is graceful and would look comely
in print.  And consider--once more, I beg--what a labor-saver it is!  Ten
pen-strokes with the one system to convey those three words above, and
thirty-three by the other! [Figure 6]  I mean, in SOME ways, not in all.
I suppose I might go so far as to say in most ways, and be within the
facts, but never mind; let it go at SOME.  One of the ways in which it
exercises this birthright is--as I think--continuing to use our laughable
alphabet these seventy-three years while there was a rational one at
hand, to be had for the taking.

It has taken five hundred years to simplify some of Chaucer's rotten
spelling--if I may be allowed to use to frank a term as that--and it will
take five hundred years more to get our exasperating new Simplified
Corruptions accepted and running smoothly. And we sha'n't be any better
off then than we are now; for in that day we shall still have the
privilege the Simplifiers are exercising now: ANYBODY can change the
spelling that wants to.

BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE THE PHONOGRAPHIC SPELLING; THERE ISN'T ANY WAY.  It
will always follow the SOUND.  If you want to change the spelling, you
have to change the sound first.

Mind, I myself am a Simplified Speller; I belong to that unhappy guild
that is patiently and hopefully trying to reform our drunken old alphabet
by reducing his whiskey.  Well, it will improve him.  When they get
through and have reformed him all they can by their system he will be
only HALF drunk.  Above that condition their system can never lift him.
There is no competent, and lasting, and real reform for him but to take
away his whiskey entirely, and fill up his jug with Pitman's wholesome
and undiseased alphabet.

One great drawback to Simplified Spelling is, that in print a simplified
word looks so like the very nation! and when you bunch a whole squadron
of the Simplified together the spectacle is very nearly unendurable.

The da ma ov koars kum when the publik ma be expektd to get rekonsyled to
the bezair asspekt of the Simplified Kombynashuns, but--if I may be
allowed the expression--is it worth the wasted time? [Figure 7]

To see our letters put together in ways to which we are not accustomed
offends the eye, and also takes the EXPRESSION out of the words.

La on, Makduf, and damd be he hoo furst krys hold, enuf!

It doesn't thrill you as it used to do.  The simplifications have sucked
the thrill all out of it.

But a written character with which we are NOT ACQUAINTED does not offend
us--Greek, Hebrew, Russian, Arabic, and the others--they have an
interesting look, and we see beauty in them, too.  And this is true of
hieroglyphics, as well.  There is something pleasant and engaging about
the mathematical signs when we do not understand them.  The mystery
hidden in these things has a fascination for us: we can't come across a
printed page of shorthand without being impressed by it and wishing we
could read it.

Very well, what I am offering for acceptance and adopting is not
shorthand, but longhand, written with the SHORTHAND ALPHABET UNREACHED.
You can write three times as many words in a minute with it as you can
write with our alphabet.  And so, in a way, it IS properly a shorthand.
It has a pleasant look, too; a beguiling look, an inviting look.  I will
write something in it, in my rude and untaught way: [Figure 8]

Even when _I_ do it it comes out prettier than it does in Simplified
Spelling.  Yes, and in the Simplified it costs one hundred and
twenty-three pen-strokes to write it, whereas in the phonographic it
costs only twenty-nine.

[Figure 9] is probably [Figure 10].

Let us hope so, anyway.

AS CONCERNS INTERPRETING THE DEITY

I

This line of hieroglyphics was for fourteen years the despair of all the
scholars who labored over the mysteries of the Rosetta stone: [Figure 1]

After five years of study Champollion translated it thus:

Therefore let the worship of Epiphanes be maintained in all the temples,
this upon pain of death.

That was the twenty-forth translation that had been furnished by
scholars.  For a time it stood.  But only for a time.  Then doubts began
to assail it and undermine it, and the scholars resumed their labors.
Three years of patient work produced eleven new translations; among them,
this, by Gr:unfeldt, was received with considerable favor:

The horse of Epiphanes shall be maintained at the public expense; this
upon pain of death.

But the following rendering, by Gospodin, was received by the learned
world with yet greater favor:

The priest shall explain the wisdom of Epiphanes to all these people,
and these shall listen with reverence, upon pain of death.

Seven years followed, in which twenty-one fresh and widely varying
renderings were scored--none of them quite convincing. But now, at last,
came Rawlinson, the youngest of all the scholars, with a translation
which was immediately and universally recognized as being the correct
version, and his name became famous in a day.  So famous, indeed, that
even the children were familiar with it; and such a noise did the
achievement itself make that not even the noise of the monumental
political event of that same year--the flight from Elba--was able to
smother it to silence.  Rawlinson's version reads as follows:

Therefore, walk not away from the wisdom of Epiphanes, but turn and
follow it; so shall it conduct thee to the temple's peace, and soften for
thee the sorrows of life and the pains of death.

Here is another difficult text: [Figure 2]

It is demotic--a style of Egyptian writing and a phase of the language
which has perished from the knowledge of all men twenty-five hundred
years before the Christian era.

Our red Indians have left many records, in the form of pictures, upon our
crags and boulders.  It has taken our most gifted and painstaking
students two centuries to get at the meanings hidden in these pictures;
yet there are still two little lines of hieroglyphics among the figures
grouped upon the Dighton Rocks which they have not succeeds in
interpreting to their satisfaction.  These: [Figure 3]

The suggested solutions are practically innumerable; they would fill a
book.

Thus we have infinite trouble in solving man-made mysteries; it is only
when we set out to discover the secret of God that our difficulties
disappear.  It was always so.  In antique Roman times it was the custom
of the Deity to try to conceal His intentions in the entrails of birds,
and this was patiently and hopefully continued century after century,
although the attempted concealment never succeeded, in a single recorded
instance.  The augurs could read entrails as easily as a modern child can
read coarse print.  Roman history is full of the marvels of
interpretation which these extraordinary men performed.  These strange
and wonderful achievements move our awe and compel our admiration.  Those
men could pierce to the marrow of a mystery instantly.  If the
Rosetta-stone idea had been introduced it would have defeated them, but
entrails had no embarrassments for them.  Entrails have gone out,
now--entrails and dreams.  It was at last found out that as hiding-places
for the divine intentions they were inadequate.

A part of the wall of Valletri in former times been struck with thunder,
the response of the soothsayers was, that a native of that town would
some time or other arrive at supreme power. --BOHN'S SUETONIUS, p. 138.

"Some time or other."  It looks indefinite, but no matter, it happened,
all the same; one needed only to wait, and be patient, and keep watch,
then he would find out that the thunder-stroke had Caesar Augustus in
mind, and had come to give notice.

There were other advance-advertisements.  One of them appeared just
before Caesar Augustus was born, and was most poetic and touching and
romantic in its feelings and aspects. It was a dream.  It was dreamed by
Caesar Augustus's mother, and interpreted at the usual rates:

Atia, before her delivery, dreamed that her bowels stretched to the
stars and expanded through the whole circuit of heaven and
earth.--SUETONIUS, p. 139.

That was in the augur's line, and furnished him no difficulties, but it
would have taken Rawlinson and Champollion fourteen years to make sure of
what it meant, because they would have been surprised and dizzy.  It
would have been too late to be valuable, then, and the bill for service
would have been barred by the statute of limitation.

In those old Roman days a gentleman's education was not complete until he
had taken a theological course at the seminary and learned how to
translate entrails.  Caesar Augustus's education received this final
polish.  All through his life, whenever he had poultry on the menu he
saved the interiors and kept himself informed of the Deity's plans by
exercising upon those interiors the arts of augury.

In his first consulship, while he was observing the auguries, twelve
vultures presented themselves, as they had done to Romulus.  And when he
offered sacrifice, the livers of all the victims were folded inward in
the lower part; a circumstance which was regarded by those present who
had skill in things of that nature, as an indubitable prognostic of great
and wonderful fortune.--SUETONIUS, p. 141.

"Indubitable" is a strong word, but no doubt it was justified, if the
livers were really turned that way.  In those days chicken livers were
strangely and delicately sensitive to coming events, no matter how far
off they might be; and they could never keep still, but would curl and
squirm like that, particularly when vultures came and showed interest in
that approaching great event and in breakfast.

II

We may now skip eleven hundred and thirty or forty years, which brings us
down to enlightened Christian times and the troubled days of King Stephen
of England.  The augur has had his day and has been long ago forgotten;
the priest had fallen heir to his trade.

King Henry is dead; Stephen, that bold and outrageous person, comes
flying over from Normandy to steal the throne from Henry's daughter.  He
accomplished his crime, and Henry of Huntington, a priest of high degree,
mourns over it in his Chronicle.  The Archbishop of Canterbury
consecrated Stephen: "wherefore the Lord visited the Archbishop with the
same judgment which he had inflicted upon him who struck Jeremiah the
great priest: he died with a year."

Stephen's was the greater offense, but Stephen could wait; not so the
Archbishop, apparently.

The kingdom was a prey to intestine wars; slaughter, fire, and rapine
spread ruin throughout the land; cries of distress, horror, and woe rose
in every quarter.

That was the result of Stephen's crime.  These unspeakable conditions
continued during nineteen years.  Then Stephen died as comfortably as any
man ever did, and was honorably buried.  It makes one pity the poor
Archbishop, and with that he, too, could have been let off as leniently.
How did Henry of Huntington know that the Archbishop was sent to his
grave by judgment of God for consecrating Stephen?  He does not explain.
Neither does he explain why Stephen was awarded a pleasanter death than
he was entitled to, while the aged King Henry, his predecessor, who had
ruled England thirty-five years to the people's strongly worded
satisfaction, was condemned to close his life in circumstances most
distinctly unpleasant, inconvenient, and disagreeable.  His was probably
the most uninspiring funeral that is set down in history.  There is not a
detail about it that is attractive.  It seems to have been just the
funeral for Stephen, and even at this far-distant day it is matter of
just regret that by an indiscretion the wrong man got it.

Whenever God punishes a man, Henry of Huntington knows why it was done,
and tells us; and his pen is eloquent with admiration; but when a man has
earned punishment, and escapes, he does not explain.  He is evidently
puzzled, but he does not say anything.  I think it is often apparent that
he is pained by these discrepancies, but loyally tries his best not to
show it. When he cannot praise, he delivers himself of a silence so
marked that a suspicious person could mistake it for suppressed
criticism.  However, he has plenty of opportunities to feel contented
with the way things go--his book is full of them.

King David of Scotland . . . under color of religion caused his
followers to deal most barbarously with the English.  They ripped open
women, tossed children on the points of spears, butchered priests at the
altars, and, cutting off the heads from the images on crucifixes, placed
them on the bodies of the slain, while in exchange they fixed on the
crucifixes the heads of their victims.  Wherever the Scots came, there
was the same scene of horror and cruelty: women shrieking, old men
lamenting, amid the groans of the dying and the despair of the living.

But the English got the victory.

Then the chief of the men of Lothian fell, pierced by an arrow, and all
his followers were put to flight.  For the Almighty was offended at them
and their strength was rent like a cobweb.

Offended at them for what?  For committing those fearful butcheries?
No, for that was the common custom on both sides, and not open to
criticism.  Then was it for doing the butcheries "under cover of
religion"?  No, that was not it; religious feeling was often expressed in
that fervent way all through those old centuries.  The truth is, He was
not offended at "them" at all; He was only offended at their king, who
had been false to an oath. Then why did not He put the punishment upon
the king instead of upon "them"?  It is a difficult question.  One can
see by the Chronicle that the "judgments" fell rather customarily upon
the wrong person, but Henry of Huntington does not explain why. Here is
one that went true; the chronicler's satisfaction in it is not hidden:

In the month of August, Providence displayed its justice in a remarkable
manner; for two of the nobles who had converted monasteries into
fortifications, expelling the monks, their sin being the same, met with a
similar punishment.  Robert Marmion was one, Godfrey de Mandeville the
other.  Robert Marmion, issuing forth against the enemy, was slain under
the walls of the monastery, being the only one who fell, though he was
surrounded by his troops.  Dying excommunicated, he became subject to
death everlasting.  In like manner Earl Godfrey was singled out among his
followers, and shot with an arrow by a common foot-soldier. He made light
of the wound, but he died of it in a few days, under excommunication.
See here the like judgment of God, memorable through all ages!

The exaltation jars upon me; not because of the death of the men, for
they deserved that, but because it is death eternal, in white-hot fire
and flame.  It makes my flesh crawl.  I have not known more than three
men, or perhaps four, in my whole lifetime, whom I would rejoice to see
writhing in those fires for even a year, let alone forever.  I believe I
would relent before the year was up, and get them out if I could.  I
think that in the long run, if a man's wife and babies, who had not
harmed me, should come crying and pleading, I couldn't stand it; I know I
should forgive him and let him go, even if he had violated a monastery.
Henry of Huntington has been watching Godfrey and Marmion for nearly
seven hundred and fifty years, now, but I couldn't do it, I know I
couldn't.  I am soft and gentle in my nature, and I should have forgiven
them seventy-and-seven times, long ago.  And I think God has; but this is
only an opinion, and not authoritative, like Henry of Huntington's
interpretations. I could learn to interpret, but I have never tried; I
get so little time.

All through his book Henry exhibits his familiarity with the intentions
of God, and with the reasons for his intentions. Sometimes--very often,
in fact--the act follows the intention after such a wide interval of time
that one wonders how Henry could fit one act out of a hundred to one
intention out of a hundred and get the thing right every time when there
was such abundant choice among acts and intentions.  Sometimes a man
offends the Deity with a crime, and is punished for it thirty years
later; meantime he was committed a million other crimes: no matter, Henry
can pick out the one that brought the worms. Worms were generally used in
those days for the slaying of particularly wicked people.  This has gone
out, now, but in old times it was a favorite.  It always indicated a case
of "wrath." For instance:

. . . the just God avenging Robert Fitzhilderbrand's perfidy, a worm
grew in his vitals, which gradually gnawing its way through his
intestines fattened on the abandoned man till, tortured with excruciating
sufferings and venting himself in bitter moans, he was by a fitting
punishment brought to his end. --(P. 400.)

It was probably an alligator, but we cannot tell; we only know it was a
particular breed, and only used to convey wrath. Some authorities think
it was an ichthyosaurus, but there is much doubt.

However, one thing we do know; and that is that that worm had been due
years and years.  Robert F. had violated a monastery once; he had
committed unprintable crimes since, and they had been permitted--under
disapproval--but the ravishment of the monastery had not been forgotten
nor forgiven, and the worm came at last.

Why were these reforms put off in this strange way?  What was to be
gained by it?  Did Henry of Huntington really know his facts, or was he
only guessing?  Sometimes I am half persuaded that he is only a guesser,
and not a good one.  The divine wisdom must surely be of the better
quality than he makes it out to be.

Five hundred years before Henry's time some forecasts of the Lord's
purposes were furnished by a pope, who perceived, by certain perfectly
trustworthy signs furnished by the Deity for the information of His
familiars, that the end of the world was

. . . about to come.  But as this end of the world draws near many
things are at hand which have not before happened, as changes in the air,
terrible signs in the heavens, tempests out of the common order of the
seasons, wars, famines, pestilences, earthquakes in various places; all
which will not happen in our days, but after our days all will come to
pass.

Still, the end was so near that these signs were "sent before that we
may be careful for our souls and be found prepared to meet the impending
judgment."

That was thirteen hundred years ago.  This is really no improvement on
the work of the Roman augurs.





CONCERNING TOBACCO

As concerns tobacco, there are many superstitions.  And the chiefest is
this--that there is a STANDARD governing the matter, whereas there is
nothing of the kind.  Each man's own preference is the only standard for
him, the only one which he can accept, the only one which can command
him.  A congress of all the tobacco-lovers in the world could not elect a
standard which would be binding upon you or me, or would even much
influence us.

The next superstition is that a man has a standard of his own. He hasn't.
He thinks he has, but he hasn't.  He thinks he can tell what he regards
as a good cigar from what he regards as a bad one--but he can't.  He goes
by the brand, yet imagines he goes by the flavor.  One may palm off the
worst counterfeit upon him; if it bears his brand he will smoke it
contentedly and never suspect.

Children of twenty-five, who have seven years experience, try to tell me
what is a good cigar and what isn't. Me, who never learned to smoke, but
always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light.

No one can tell me what is a good cigar--for me.  I am the only judge.
People who claim to know say that I smoke the worst cigars in the world.
They bring their own cigars when they come to my house.  They betray an
unmanly terror when I offer them a cigar; they tell lies and hurry away
to meet engagements which they have not made when they are threatened
with the hospitalities of my box.  Now then, observe what superstition,
assisted by a man's reputation, can do.  I was to have twelve personal
friends to supper one night.  One of them was as notorious for costly and
elegant cigars as I was for cheap and devilish ones.  I called at his
house and when no one was looking borrowed a double handful of his very
choicest; cigars which cost him forty cents apiece and bore red-and-gold
labels in sign of their nobility.  I removed the labels and put the
cigars into a box with my favorite brand on it--a brand which those
people all knew, and which cowed them as men are cowed by an epidemic.
They took these cigars when offered at the end of the supper, and lit
them and sternly struggled with them--in dreary silence, for hilarity
died when the fell brand came into view and started around--but their
fortitude held for a short time only; then they made excuses and filed
out, treading on one another's heels with indecent eagerness; and in the
morning when I went out to observe results the cigars lay all between the
front door and the gate. All except one--that one lay in the plate of the
man from whom I had cabbaged the lot.  One or two whiffs was all he could
stand. He told me afterward that some day I would get shot for giving
people that kind of cigars to smoke.

Am I certain of my own standard?  Perfectly; yes, absolutely--unless
somebody fools me by putting my brand on some other kind of cigar; for no
doubt I am like the rest, and know my cigar by the brand instead of by
the flavor.  However, my standard is a pretty wide one and covers a good
deal of territory.  To me, almost any cigar is good that nobody else will
smoke, and to me almost all cigars are bad that other people consider
good. Nearly any cigar will do me, except a Havana.  People think they
hurt my feelings when then come to my house with their life preservers
on--I mean, with their own cigars in their pockets. It is an error; I
take care of myself in a similar way.  When I go into danger--that is,
into rich people's houses, where, in the nature of things, they will have
high-tariff cigars, red-and-gilt girded and nested in a rosewood box
along with a damp sponge, cigars which develop a dismal black ash and
burn down the side and smell, and will grow hot to the fingers, and will
go on growing hotter and hotter, and go on smelling more and more
infamously and unendurably the deeper the fire tunnels down inside below
the thimbleful of honest tobacco that is in the front end, the furnisher
of it praising it all the time and telling you how much the deadly thing
cost--yes, when I go into that sort of peril I carry my own defense
along; I carry my own brand--twenty-seven cents a barrel--and I live to
see my family again.  I may seem to light his red-gartered cigar, but
that is only for courtesy's sake; I smuggle it into my pocket for the
poor, of whom I know many, and light one of my own; and while he praises
it I join in, but when he says it cost forty-five cents I say nothing,
for I know better.

However, to say true, my tastes are so catholic that I have never seen
any cigars that I really could not smoke, except those that cost a dollar
apiece.  I have examined those and know that they are made of dog-hair,
and not good dog-hair at that.

I have a thoroughly satisfactory time in Europe, for all over the
Continent one finds cigars which not even the most hardened newsboys in
New York would smoke.  I brought cigars with me, the last time; I will
not do that any more.  In Italy, as in France, the Government is the only
cigar-peddler.  Italy has three or four domestic brands: the Minghetti,
the Trabuco, the Virginia, and a very coarse one which is a modification
of the Virginia.  The Minghettis are large and comely, and cost three
dollars and sixty cents a hundred; I can smoke a hundred in seven days
and enjoy every one of them.  The Trabucos suit me, too; I don't remember
the price.  But one has to learn to like the Virginia, nobody is born
friendly to it.  It looks like a rat-tail file, but smokes better, some
think.  It has a straw through it; you pull this out, and it leaves a
flue, otherwise there would be no draught, not even as much as there is
to a nail. Some prefer a nail at first.  However, I like all the French,
Swiss, German, and Italian domestic cigars, and have never cared to
inquire what they are made of; and nobody would know, anyhow, perhaps.
There is even a brand of European smoking-tobacco that I like.  It is a
brand used by the Italian peasants.  It is loose and dry and black, and
looks like tea-grounds.  When the fire is applied it expands, and climbs
up and towers above the pipe, and presently tumbles off inside of one's
vest.  The tobacco itself is cheap, but it raises the insurance.  It is
as I remarked in the beginning--the taste for tobacco is a matter of
superstition. There are no standards--no real standards.  Each man's
preference is the only standard for him, the only one which he can
accept, the only one which can command him.





THE BEE

It was Maeterlinck who introduced me to the bee.  I mean, in the
psychical and in the poetical way.  I had had a business introduction
earlier.  It was when I was a boy.  It is strange that I should remember
a formality like that so long; it must be nearly sixty years.

Bee scientists always speak of the bee as she.  It is because all the
important bees are of that sex.  In the hive there is one married bee,
called the queen; she has fifty thousand children; of these, about one
hundred are sons; the rest are daughters.  Some of the daughters are
young maids, some are old maids, and all are virgins and remain so.

Every spring the queen comes out of the hive and flies away with one of
her sons and marries him.  The honeymoon lasts only an hour or two; then
the queen divorces her husband and returns home competent to lay two
million eggs.  This will be enough to last the year, but not more than
enough, because hundreds of bees are drowned every day, and other
hundreds are eaten by birds, and it is the queen's business to keep the
population up to standard--say, fifty thousand.  She must always have
that many children on hand and efficient during the busy season, which is
summer, or winter would catch the community short of food.  She lays from
two thousand to three thousand eggs a day, according to the demand; and
she must exercise judgment, and not lay more than are needed in a slim
flower-harvest, nor fewer than are required in a prodigal one, or the
board of directors will dethrone her and elect a queen that has more
sense.

There are always a few royal heirs in stock and ready to take her
place--ready and more than anxious to do it, although she is their own
mother.  These girls are kept by themselves, and are regally fed and
tended from birth.  No other bees get such fine food as they get, or live
such a high and luxurious life. By consequence they are larger and longer
and sleeker than their working sisters.  And they have a curved sting,
shaped like a scimitar, while the others have a straight one.

A common bee will sting any one or anybody, but a royalty stings
royalties only.  A common bee will sting and kill another common bee, for
cause, but when it is necessary to kill the queen other ways are
employed.  When a queen has grown old and slack and does not lay eggs
enough one of her royal daughters is allowed to come to attack her, the
rest of the bees looking on at the duel and seeing fair play.  It is a
duel with the curved stings.  If one of the fighters gets hard pressed
and gives it up and runs, she is brought back and must try again--once,
maybe twice; then, if she runs yet once more for her life, judicial death
is her portion; her children pack themselves into a ball around her
person and hold her in that compact grip two or three days, until she
starves to death or is suffocated.  Meantime the victor bee is receiving
royal honors and performing the one royal function--laying eggs.

As regards the ethics of the judicial assassination of the queen, that is
a matter of politics, and will be discussed later, in its proper place.

During substantially the whole of her short life of five or six years the
queen lives in Egyptian darkness and stately seclusion of the royal
apartments, with none about her but plebeian servants, who give her empty
lip-affection in place of the love which her heart hungers for; who spy
upon her in the interest of her waiting heirs, and report and exaggerate
her defects and deficiencies to them; who fawn upon her and flatter her
to her face and slander her behind her back; who grovel before her in the
day of her power and forsake her in her age and weakness.  There she
sits, friendless, upon her throne through the long night of her life, cut
off from the consoling sympathies and sweet companionship and loving
endearments which she craves, by the gilded barriers of her awful rank; a
forlorn exile in her own house and home, weary object of formal
ceremonies and machine-made worship, winged child of the sun, native to
the free air and the blue skies and the flowery fields, doomed by the
splendid accident of her birth to trade this priceless heritage for a
black captivity, a tinsel grandeur, and a loveless life, with shame and
insult at the end and a cruel death--and condemned by the human instinct
in her to hold the bargain valuable!

Huber, Lubbock, Maeterlinck--in fact, all the great authorities--are
agreed in denying that the bee is a member of the human family.  I do not
know why they have done this, but I think it is from dishonest motives.
Why, the innumerable facts brought to light by their own painstaking and
exhaustive experiments prove that if there is a master fool in the world,
it is the bee.  That seems to settle it.

But that is the way of the scientist.  He will spend thirty years in
building up a mountain range of facts with the intent to prove a certain
theory; then he is so happy in his achievement that as a rule he
overlooks the main chief fact of all--that his accumulation proves an
entirely different thing.  When you point out this miscarriage to him he
does not answer your letters; when you call to convince him, the servant
prevaricates and you do not get in.  Scientists have odious manners,
except when you prop up their theory; then you can borrow money of them.

To be strictly fair, I will concede that now and then one of them will
answer your letter, but when they do they avoid the issue--you cannot pin
them down.  When I discovered that the bee was human I wrote about it to
all those scientists whom I have just mentioned.  For evasions, I have
seen nothing to equal the answers I got.

After the queen, the personage next in importance in the hive is the
virgin.  The virgins are fifty thousand or one hundred thousand in
number, and they are the workers, the laborers.  No work is done, in the
hive or out of it, save by them.  The males do not work, the queen does
no work, unless laying eggs is work, but it does not seem so to me.
There are only two million of them, anyway, and all of five months to
finish the contract in.  The distribution of work in a hive is as
cleverly and elaborately specialized as it is in a vast American
machine-shop or factory.  A bee that has been trained to one of the many
and various industries of the concern doesn't know how to exercise any
other, and would be offended if asked to take a hand in anything outside
of her profession.  She is as human as a cook; and if you should ask the
cook to wait on the table, you know what will happen.  Cooks will play
the piano if you like, but they draw the line there.  In my time I have
asked a cook to chop wood, and I know about these things.  Even the hired
girl has her frontiers; true, they are vague, they are ill-defined, even
flexible, but they are there.  This is not conjecture; it is founded on
the absolute.  And then the butler.  You ask the butler to wash the dog.
It is just as I say; there is much to be learned in these ways, without
going to books.  Books are very well, but books do not cover the whole
domain of esthetic human culture. Pride of profession is one of the
boniest bones in existence, if not the boniest.  Without doubt it is so
in the hive.



TAMING THE BICYCLE

In the early eighties Mark Twain learned to ride one of the old
high-wheel bicycles of that period.  He wrote an account of his
experience, but did not offer it for publication.  The form of bicycle he
rode long ago became antiquated, but in the humor of his pleasantry is a
quality which does not grow old.

A. B. P.



I

I thought the matter over, and concluded I could do it.  So I went down a
bought a barrel of Pond's Extract and a bicycle. The Expert came home
with me to instruct me.  We chose the back yard, for the sake of privacy,
and went to work.

Mine was not a full-grown bicycle, but only a colt--a fifty-inch, with
the pedals shortened up to forty-eight--and skittish, like any other
colt.  The Expert explained the thing's points briefly, then he got on
its back and rode around a little, to show me how easy it was to do.  He
said that the dismounting was perhaps the hardest thing to learn, and so
we would leave that to the last.  But he was in error there.  He found,
to his surprise and joy, that all that he needed to do was to get me on
to the machine and stand out of the way; I could get off, myself.
Although I was wholly inexperienced, I dismounted in the best time on
record.  He was on that side, shoving up the machine; we all came down
with a crash, he at the bottom, I next, and the machine on top.

We examined the machine, but it was not in the least injured.  This was
hardly believable.  Yet the Expert assured me that it was true; in fact,
the examination proved it.  I was partly to realize, then, how admirably
these things are constructed.  We applied some Pond's Extract, and
resumed.  The Expert got on the OTHER side to shove up this time, but I
dismounted on that side; so the result was as before.

The machine was not hurt.  We oiled ourselves again, and resumed. This
time the Expert took up a sheltered position behind, but somehow or other
we landed on him again.

He was full of admiration; said it was abnormal.  She was all right, not
a scratch on her, not a timber started anywhere. I said it was wonderful,
while we were greasing up, but he said that when I came to know these
steel spider-webs I would realize that nothing but dynamite could cripple
them.  Then he limped out to position, and we resumed once more.  This
time the Expert took up the position of short-stop, and got a man to
shove up behind. We got up a handsome speed, and presently traversed a
brick, and I went out over the top of the tiller and landed, head down,
on the instructor's back, and saw the machine fluttering in the air
between me and the sun.  It was well it came down on us, for that broke
the fall, and it was not injured.

Five days later I got out and was carried down to the hospital, and found
the Expert doing pretty fairly.  In a few more days I was quite sound.  I
attribute this to my prudence in always dismounting on something soft.
Some recommend a feather bed, but I think an Expert is better.

The Expert got out at last, brought four assistants with him.  It was a
good idea.  These four held the graceful cobweb upright while I climbed
into the saddle; then they formed in column and marched on either side of
me while the Expert pushed behind; all hands assisted at the dismount.

The bicycle had what is called the "wabbles," and had them very badly.
In order to keep my position, a good many things were required of me, and
in every instance the thing required was against nature.  That is to say,
that whatever the needed thing might be, my nature, habit, and breeding
moved me to attempt it in one way, while some immutable and unsuspected
law of physics required that it be done in just the other way.  I
perceived by this how radically and grotesquely wrong had been the
life-long education of my body and members.  They were steeped in
ignorance; they knew nothing--nothing which it could profit them to know.
For instance, if I found myself falling to the right, I put the tiller
hard down the other way, by a quite natural impulse, and so violated a
law, and kept on going down.  The law required the opposite thing--the
big wheel must be turned in the direction in which you are falling.  It
is hard to believe this, when you are told it.  And not merely hard to
believe it, but impossible; it is opposed to all your notions.  And it is
just as hard to do it, after you do come to believe it.  Believing it,
and knowing by the most convincing proof that it is true, does not help
it: you can't any more DO it than you could before; you can neither force
nor persuade yourself to do it at first.  The intellect has to come to
the front, now.  It has to teach the limbs to discard their old education
and adopt the new.

The steps of one's progress are distinctly marked.  At the end of each
lesson he knows he has acquired something, and he also knows what that
something is, and likewise that it will stay with him.  It is not like
studying German, where you mull along, in a groping, uncertain way, for
thirty years; and at last, just as you think you've got it, they spring
the subjunctive on you, and there you are.  No--and I see now, plainly
enough, that the great pity about the German language is, that you can't
fall off it and hurt yourself.  There is nothing like that feature to
make you attend strictly to business.  But I also see, by what I have
learned of bicycling, that the right and only sure way to learn German is
by the bicycling method.  That is to say, take a grip on one villainy of
it at a time, leaving that one half learned.

When you have reached the point in bicycling where you can balance the
machine tolerably fairly and propel it and steer it, then comes your next
task--how to mount it.  You do it in this way: you hop along behind it on
your right foot, resting the other on the mounting-peg, and grasping the
tiller with your hands.  At the word, you rise on the peg, stiffen your
left leg, hang your other one around in the air in a general in
indefinite way, lean your stomach against the rear of the saddle, and
then fall off, maybe on one side, maybe on the other; but you fall off.
You get up and do it again; and once more; and then several times.

By this time you have learned to keep your balance; and also to steer
without wrenching the tiller out by the roots (I say tiller because it IS
a tiller; "handle-bar" is a lamely descriptive phrase).  So you steer
along, straight ahead, a little while, then you rise forward, with a
steady strain, bringing your right leg, and then your body, into the
saddle, catch your breath, fetch a violent hitch this way and then that,
and down you go again.

But you have ceased to mind the going down by this time; you are getting
to light on one foot or the other with considerable certainty.  Six more
attempts and six more falls make you perfect.  You land in the saddle
comfortably, next time, and stay there--that is, if you can be content to
let your legs dangle, and leave the pedals alone a while; but if you grab
at once for the pedals, you are gone again.  You soon learn to wait a
little and perfect your balance before reaching for the pedals; then the
mounting-art is acquired, is complete, and a little practice will make it
simple and easy to you, though spectators ought to keep off a rod or two
to one side, along at first, if you have nothing against them.

And now you come to the voluntary dismount; you learned the other kind
first of all.  It is quite easy to tell one how to do the voluntary
dismount; the words are few, the requirement simple, and apparently
undifficult; let your left pedal go down till your left leg is nearly
straight, turn your wheel to the left, and get off as you would from a
horse.  It certainly does sound exceedingly easy; but it isn't.  I don't
know why it isn't but it isn't.  Try as you may, you don't get down as
you would from a horse, you get down as you would from a house afire.
You make a spectacle of yourself every time.

II

During the eight days I took a daily lesson an hour and a half.  At the
end of this twelve working-hours' appreticeship I was graduated--in the
rough.  I was pronounced competent to paddle my own bicycle without
outside help.  It seems incredible, this celerity of acquirement.  It
takes considerably longer than that to learn horseback-riding in the
rough.

Now it is true that I could have learned without a teacher, but it would
have been risky for me, because of my natural clumsiness.  The
self-taught man seldom knows anything accurately, and he does not know a
tenth as much as he could have known if he had worked under teachers;
and, besides, he brags, and is the means of fooling other thoughtless
people into going and doing as he himself has done.  There are those who
imagine that the unlucky accidents of life--life's "experiences"--are in
some way useful to us.  I wish I could find out how.  I never knew one of
them to happen twice.  They always change off and swap around and catch
you on your inexperienced side.  If personal experience can be worth
anything as an education, it wouldn't seem likely that you could trip
Methuselah; and yet if that old person could come back here it is more
that likely that one of the first things he would do would be to take
hold of one of these electric wires and tie himself all up in a knot.
Now the surer thing and the wiser thing would be for him to ask somebody
whether it was a good thing to take hold of.  But that would not suit
him; he would be one of the self-taught kind that go by experience; he
would want to examine for himself.  And he would find, for his
instruction, that the coiled patriarch shuns the electric wire; and it
would be useful to him, too, and would leave his education in quite a
complete and rounded-out condition, till he should come again, some day,
and go to bouncing a dynamite-can around to find out what was in it.

But we wander from the point.  However, get a teacher; it saves much time
and Pond's Extract.

Before taking final leave of me, my instructor inquired concerning my
physical strength, and I was able to inform him that I hadn't any.  He
said that that was a defect which would make up-hill wheeling pretty
difficult for me at first; but he also said the bicycle would soon remove
it.  The contrast between his muscles and mine was quite marked.  He
wanted to test mine, so I offered my biceps--which was my best.  It
almost made him smile.  He said, "It is pulpy, and soft, and yielding,
and rounded; it evades pressure, and glides from under the fingers; in
the dark a body might think it was an oyster in a rag." Perhaps this made
me look grieved, for he added, briskly: "Oh, that's all right, you
needn't worry about that; in a little while you can't tell it from a
petrified kidney.  Just go right along with your practice; you're all
right."

Then he left me, and I started out alone to seek adventures. You don't
really have to seek them--that is nothing but a phrase--they come to
you.

I chose a reposeful Sabbath-day sort of a back street which was about
thirty yards wide between the curbstones.  I knew it was not wide enough;
still, I thought that by keeping strict watch and wasting no space
unnecessarily I could crowd through.

Of course I had trouble mounting the machine, entirely on my own
responsibility, with no encouraging moral support from the outside, no
sympathetic instructor to say, "Good! now you're doing well--good
again--don't hurry--there, now, you're all right--brace up, go ahead."
In place of this I had some other support.  This was a boy, who was
perched on a gate-post munching a hunk of maple sugar.

He was full of interest and comment.  The first time I failed and went
down he said that if he was me he would dress up in pillows, that's what
he would do.  The next time I went down he advised me to go and learn to
ride a tricycle first.  The third time I collapsed he said he didn't
believe I could stay on a horse-car.  But the next time I succeeded, and
got clumsily under way in a weaving, tottering, uncertain fashion, and
occupying pretty much all of the street.  My slow and lumbering gait
filled the boy to the chin with scorn, and he sung out, "My, but don't he
rip along!"  Then he got down from his post and loafed along the
sidewalk, still observing and occasionally commenting.  Presently he
dropped into my wake and followed along behind.  A little girl passed by,
balancing a wash-board on her head, and giggled, and seemed about to make
a remark, but the boy said, rebukingly, "Let him alone, he's going to a
funeral."

I have been familiar with that street for years, and had always supposed
it was a dead level; but it was not, as the bicycle now informed me, to
my surprise.  The bicycle, in the hands of a novice, is as alert and
acute as a spirit-level in the detecting the delicate and vanishing
shades of difference in these matters.  It notices a rise where your
untrained eye would not observe that one existed; it notices any decline
which water will run down.  I was toiling up a slight rise, but was not
aware of it.  It made me tug and pant and perspire; and still, labor as I
might, the machine came almost to a standstill every little while. At
such times the boy would say: "That's it! take a rest--there ain't no
hurry.  They can't hold the funeral without YOU."

Stones were a bother to me.  Even the smallest ones gave me a panic when
I went over them.  I could hit any kind of a stone, no matter how small,
if I tried to miss it; and of course at first I couldn't help trying to
do that.  It is but natural. It is part of the ass that is put in us all,
for some inscrutable reason.

It was at the end of my course, at last, and it was necessary for me to
round to.  This is not a pleasant thing, when you undertake it for the
first time on your own responsibility, and neither is it likely to
succeed.  Your confidence oozes away, you fill steadily up with nameless
apprehensions, every fiber of you is tense with a watchful strain, you
start a cautious and gradual curve, but your squirmy nerves are all full
of electric anxieties, so the curve is quickly demoralized into a jerky
and perilous zigzag; then suddenly the nickel-clad horse takes the bit in
its mouth and goes slanting for the curbstone, defying all prayers and
all your powers to change its mind--your heart stands still, your breath
hangs fire, your legs forget to work, straight on you go, and there are
but a couple of feet between you and the curb now.  And now is the
desperate moment, the last chance to save yourself; of course all your
instructions fly out of your head, and you whirl your wheel AWAY from the
curb instead of TOWARD it, and so you go sprawling on that granite-bound
inhospitable shore.  That was my luck; that was my experience.  I dragged
myself out from under the indestructible bicycle and sat down on the curb
to examine.

I started on the return trip.  It was now that I saw a farmer's wagon
poking along down toward me, loaded with cabbages. If I needed anything
to perfect the precariousness of my steering, it was just that.  The
farmer was occupying the middle of the road with his wagon, leaving
barely fourteen or fifteen yards of space on either side.  I couldn't
shout at him--a beginner can't shout; if he opens his mouth he is gone;
he must keep all his attention on his business.  But in this grisly
emergency, the boy came to the rescue, and for once I had to be grateful
to him. He kept a sharp lookout on the swiftly varying impulses and
inspirations of my bicycle, and shouted to the man accordingly:

"To the left!  Turn to the left, or this jackass 'll run over you!" The
man started to do it.  "No, to the right, to the right! Hold on! THAT
won't do!--to the left!--to the right!--to the LEFT--right! left--ri--
Stay where you ARE, or you're a goner!"

And just then I caught the off horse in the starboard and went down in a
pile.  I said, "Hang it!  Couldn't you SEE I was coming?"

"Yes, I see you was coming, but I couldn't tell which WAY you was coming.
Nobody could--now, COULD they?  You couldn't yourself--now, COULD you?
So what could _I_ do?"

There was something in that, and so I had the magnanimity to say so.  I
said I was no doubt as much to blame as he was.

Within the next five days I achieved so much progress that the boy
couldn't keep up with me.  He had to go back to his gate-post, and
content himself with watching me fall at long range.

There was a row of low stepping-stones across one end of the street, a
measured yard apart.  Even after I got so I could steer pretty fairly I
was so afraid of those stones that I always hit them.  They gave me the
worst falls I ever got in that street, except those which I got from
dogs.  I have seen it stated that no expert is quick enough to run over a
dog; that a dog is always able to skip out of his way.  I think that that
may be true: but I think that the reason he couldn't run over the dog was
because he was trying to.  I did not try to run over any dog.  But I ran
over every dog that came along.  I think it makes a great deal of
difference.  If you try to run over the dog he knows how to calculate,
but if you are trying to miss him he does not know how to calculate, and
is liable to jump the wrong way every time.  It was always so in my
experience.  Even when I could not hit a wagon I could hit a dog that
came to see me practice.  They all liked to see me practice, and they all
came, for there was very little going on in our neighborhood to entertain
a dog.  It took time to learn to miss a dog, but I achieved even that.

I can steer as well as I want to, now, and I will catch that boy one of
these days and run over HIM if he doesn't reform.

Get a bicycle.  You will not regret it, if you live.



IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?

(from My Autobiography)

Scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscript
which constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary of mine, certain
chapters will in some distant future be found which deal with
"Claimants"--claimants historically notorious: Satan, Claimant; the
Golden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, Claimant; Louis
XVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare, Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant;
Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and the rest of them.  Eminent Claimants,
successful Claimants, defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, pleb
Claimants, showy Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised
Claimants, twinkle star-like here and there and yonder through the mists
of history and legend and tradition--and, oh, all the darling tribe are
clothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep interest
and discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorous resentment,
according to which side we hitch ourselves to.  It has always been so
with the human race. There was never a Claimant that couldn't get a
hearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a rapturous following, no
matter how flimsy and apparently unauthentic his claim might be.  Arthur
Orton's claim that he was the lost Tichborne baronet come to life again
was as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy's that she wrote SCIENCE AND HEALTH from the
direct dictation of the Deity; yet in England nearly forty years ago
Orton had a huge army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of
whom remained stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god had been proven
an impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and today Mrs. Eddy's following is
not only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers and enthusiasm.
Orton had many fine and educated minds among his adherents, Mrs. Eddy has
had the like among hers from the beginning.  Her Church is as well
equipped in those particulars as is any other Church. Claimants can
always count upon a following, it doesn't matter who they are, nor what
they claim, nor whether they come with documents or without.  It was
always so.  Down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the
ages, if you listen, you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting
for Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel.

A friend has sent me a new book, from England--THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM
RESTATED--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty years'
interest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is excited once
more.  It is an interest which was born of Delia Bacon's book--away back
in the ancient day--1857, or maybe 1856.  About a year later my
pilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his own steamboat to the
PENNSYLVANIA, and placed me under the orders and instructions of George
Ealer--dead now, these many, many years.  I steered for him a good many
months--as was the humble duty of the pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight
watch and spun the wheel under the severe superintendence and correction
of the master.  He was a prime chess-player and an idolater of
Shakespeare.  He would play chess with anybody; even with me, and it cost
his official dignity something to do that.  Also--quite uninvited--he
would read Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, when it
was his watch and I was steering.  He read well, but not profitably for
me, because he constantly injected commands into the text.  That broke it
all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that degree, in fact, that
if we were in a risky and difficult piece of river an ignorant person
couldn't have told, sometimes, which observations were Shakespeare's and
which were Ealer's.  For instance:

What man dare, _I_ dare!

Approach thou WHAT are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of an
idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! rugged Russian
bear, the armed rhinoceros or the THERE she goes! meet her, meet her!
didn't you KNOW she'd smell the reef if you crowded in like that?  Hyrcan
tiger; take any ship but that and my firm nerves she'll be in the WOODS
the first you know! stop he starboard! come ahead strong on the larboard!
back the starboard! . . . NOW then, you're all right; come ahead on the
starboard; straighten up and go 'long, never tremble: or be alive again,
and dare me to the desert DAMNATION can't you keep away from that greasy
water? pull her down! snatch her! snatch her baldheaded! with thy sword;
if trembling I inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no, only with the
starboard one, leave the other alone, protest me the baby of a girl.
Hence horrible shadow! eight bells--that watchman's asleep again, I
reckon, go down and call Brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence!

He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy and
tragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since been able
to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way. I cannot rid it of his
explosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant,
"What in hell are you up to NOW! pull her down! more! MORE!--there now,
steady as you go," and the other disorganizing interruptions that were
always leaping from his mouth.  When I read Shakespeare now I can hear
them as plainly as I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years ago.
I never regarded Ealer's readings as educational. Indeed, they were a
detriment to me.

His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that detail
he was a good reader; I can say that much for him.  He did not use the
book, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclid ever
knew his multiplication table.

Did he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi
pilot--anent Delia Bacon's book?

Yes.  And he said it; said it all the time, for months--in the morning
watch, the middle watch, and dog watch; and probably kept it going in his
sleep.  He bought the literature of the dispute as fast as it appeared,
and we discussed it all through thirteen hundred miles of river four
times traversed in every thirty-five days--the time required by that
swift boat to achieve two round trips.  We discussed, and discussed, and
discussed, and disputed and disputed and disputed; at any rate, HE did,
and I got in a word now and then when he slipped a cog and there was a
vacancy.  He did his arguing with heat, with energy, with violence; and I
did mine with the reverse and moderation of a subordinate who does not
like to be flung out of a pilot-house and is perched forty feet above the
water.  He was fiercely loyal to Shakespeare and cordially scornful of
Bacon and of all the pretensions of the Baconians.  So was I--at first.
And at first he was glad that that was my attitude.  There were even
indications that he admired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the
distance that lay between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly
one, yet perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a
compliment--compliment coming down from about the snow-line and not well
thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a
cub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable complement, and precious.

Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if
possible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--if
possible--that I was before.  And so we discussed and discussed, both on
the same side, and were happy. For a while.  Only for a while.  Only for
a very little while, a very, very, very little while.  Then the
atmosphere began to change; began to cool off.

A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than I
did, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes.  You
see, he was of an argumentative disposition.  Therefore it took him but a
little time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed with
everything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocative to
flare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard,
rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing REASONING.  That was his name
for it.  It has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several
times, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle.  On the Shakespeare side.

Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me
when principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to
each other and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and went over
to the other side.  Not the entire way, but far enough to answer the
requirements of the case.  That is to say, I took this attitude--to wit,
I only BELIEVED Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I KNEW Shakespeare
didn't.  Ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose.  Study,
practice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled
me to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly
seriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly;
finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly.  After that I was welded to
my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I looked down with
compassion not unmixed with scorn upon everybody else's faith that didn't
tally with mine.  That faith, imposed upon me by self-interest in that
ancient day, remains my faith today, and in it I find comfort, solace,
peace, and never-failing joy.  You see how curiously theological it is.
The "rice Christian" of the Orient goes through the very same steps, when
he is after rice and the missionary is after HIM; he goes for rice, and
remains to worship.

Ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of it.
The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name.
We others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any
name at all.  They show for themselves what they are, and we can with
tranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its
own choosing.

Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my
induction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself: always
getting eight feet, eight and a half, often nine, sometimes even
quarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always "no bottom," as HE said.

I got the best of him only once.  I prepared myself.  I wrote out a
passage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quoted awhile
ago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatful
interlardings.  When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer
day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as
Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the
PENNSYLVANIA triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and the
A. T. LACEY had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feeling
good, I showed it to him.  It amused him.  I asked him to fire it off
--READ it; read it, I diplomatically added, as only HE could read
dramatic poetry.  The compliment touched him where he lived.  He did read
it; read it with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never be
read again; for HE know how to put the right music into those thunderous
interlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them sound as
if they were bursting from Shakespeare's own soul, each one of them a
golden inspiration and not to be left out without damage to the massed
and magnificent whole.

I waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited until he
brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my pet
argument, the one which I was fondest of, the one which I prized far
above all others in my ammunition-wagon--to wit, that Shakespeare
couldn't have written Shakespeare's words, for the reason that the man
who wrote them was limitlessly familiar with the laws, and the
law-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--and if
Shakespeare was possessed of the infinitely divided star-dust that
constituted this vast wealth, HOW did he get it, and WHERE and WHEN?

"From books."

From books!  That was always the idea.  I answered as my readings of the
champions of my side of the great controversy had taught me to answer:
that a man can't handle glibly and easily and comfortably and
successfully the argot of a trade at which he has not personally served.
He will make mistakes; he will not, and cannot, get the trade-phrasings
precisely and exactly right; and the moment he departs, by even a shade,
from a common trade-form, the reader who has served that trade will know
the writer HASN'T.  Ealer would not be convinced; he said a man could
learn how to correctly handle the subtleties and mysteries and
free-masonries of ANY trade by careful reading and studying.  But when I
got him to read again the passage from Shakespeare with the
interlardings, he perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach a student
a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly and perfectly that
he could talk them off in book and play or conversation and make no
mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover.  It was a triumph
for me.  He was silent awhile, and I knew what was happening--he was
losing his temper. And I knew he would presently close the session with
the same old argument that was always his stay and his support in time of
need; the same old argument, the one I couldn't answer, because I
dasn't--the argument that I was an ass, and better shut up.  He delivered
it, and I obeyed.

O dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago!  And here am I,
old, forsaken, forlorn, and alone, arranging to get that argument out of
somebody again.

When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying that he
keeps company with other standard authors.  Ealer always had several
high-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and
over again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones.  He
played well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed hearing himself play.  So
did I.  He had a notion that a flute would keep its health better if you
took it apart when it was not standing a watch; and so, when it was not
on duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the compass-shelf under the
breastboard.  When the PENNSYLVANIA blew up and became a drifting
rack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my young brother
Henry among them), pilot Brown had the watch below, and was probably
asleep and never knew what killed him; but Ealer escaped unhurt.  He and
his pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealer sank
through the ragged cavern where the hurricane-deck and the boiler-deck
had been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one
of the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog of scald and
deadly steam.  But not for long.  He did not lose his head--long
familiarity with danger had taught him to keep it, in any and all
emergencies.  He held his coat-lapels to his nose with one hand, to keep
out the steam, and scrabbled around with the other till he found the
joints of his flute, then he took measures to save himself alive, and was
successful.  I was not on board.  I had been put ashore in New Orleans by
Captain Klinenfelter.  The reason--however, I have told all about it in
the book called OLD TIMES ON THE MISSISSIPPI, and it isn't important,
anyway, it is so long ago.

II

When I was a Sunday-school scholar, something more than sixty years ago,
I became interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I could about
him.  I began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, Mr. Barclay, the
stone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me.  I was
anxious to be praised for turning my thoughts to serious subjects when
there wasn't another boy in the village who could be hired to do such a
thing.  I was greatly interested in the incident of Eve and the serpent,
and thought Eve's calmness was perfectly noble.  I asked Mr. Barclay if
he had ever heard of another woman who, being approached by a serpeant,
would not excuse herself and break for the nearest timber.  He did not
answer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above my
age and comprehension.  I will say for Mr. Barclay that he was willing to
tell me the facts of Satan's history, but he stopped there: he wouldn't
allow any discussion of them.

In the course of time we exhausted the facts.  There were only five or
six of them; you could set them all down on a visiting-card.  I was
disappointed.  I had been meditating a biography, and was grieved to find
that there were no materials. I said as much, with the tears running
down.  Mr. Barclay's sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he was a
most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head and
cheered me up by saying there was a whole vast ocean of materials!  I can
still feel the happy thrill which these blessed words shot through me.

Then he began to bail out that ocean's riches for my encouragement  and
joy.  Like this: it was "conjectured"--though not established--that Satan
was originally an angel in Heaven; that he fell; that he rebelled, and
brought on a war; that he was defeated, and banished to perdition.  Also,
"we have reason to believe" that later he did so and so; that "we are
warranted in supposing" that at a subsequent time he traveled
extensively, seeking whom he might devour; that a couple of centuries
afterward, "as tradition instructs us," he took up the cruel trade of
tempting people to their ruin, with vast and fearful results; that by and
by, "as the probabilities seem to indicate," he may have done certain
things, he might have done certain other things, he must have done still
other things.

And so on and so on.  We set down the five known facts by themselves on a
piece of paper, and numbered it "page 1"; then on fifteen hundred other
pieces of paper we set down the "conjectures," and "suppositions," and
"maybes," and "perhapses," and "doubtlesses," and "rumors," and
"guesses," and "probabilities," and "likelihoods," and "we are permitted
to thinks," and "we are warranted in believings," and "might have beens,"
and "could have beens," and "must have beens," and "unquestionablys," and
"without a shadow of doubt"--and behold!

MATERIALS?  Why, we had enough to build a biography of Shakespeare!

Yet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the history of
Satan.  Why?  Because, as he said, he had suspicions--suspicions that my
attitude in the matter was not reverent, and that a person must be
reverent when writing about the sacred characters.  He said any one who
spoke flippantly of Satan would be frowned upon by the religious world
and also be brought to account.

I assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had wholly
misconceived my attitude; that I had the highest respect for Satan, and
that my reverence for him equaled, and possibly even exceeded, that of
any member of the church.  I said it wounded me deeply to perceive by his
words that he thought I would make fun of Satan, and deride him, laugh at
him, scoff at him; whereas in truth I had never thought of such a thing,
but had only a warm desire to make fun of those others and laugh at THEM.
"What others?"  "Why, the Supposers, the Perhapsers, the
Might-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-Beeners, the Must-Have-Beeners, the
Without-a-Shadow-of-Doubters, the We-Are-Warranted-in-Believingers, and
all that funny crop of solemn architects who have taken a good solid
foundation of five indisputable and unimportant facts and built upon it a
Conjectural Satan thirty miles high."

What did Mr. Barclay do then?  Was he disarmed?  Was he silenced?  No.
He was shocked.  He was so shocked that he visibly shuddered.  He said
the Satanic Traditioners and Perhapsers and Conjecturers were THEMSELVES
sacred!  As sacred as their work.  So sacred that whoso ventured to mock
them or make fun of their work, could not afterward enter any respectable
house, even by the back door.

How true were his words, and how wise!  How fortunate it would have been
for me if I had heeded them.  But I was young, I was but seven years of
age, and vain, foolish, and anxious to attract attention.  I wrote the
biography, and have never been in a respectable house since.

III

How curious and interesting is the parallel--as far as poverty of
biographical details is concerned--between Satan and Shakespeare.  It is
wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is nothing
resembling it in history, nothing resembling it in romance, nothing
approaching it even in tradition.  How sublime is their position, and how
over-topping, how sky-reaching, how supreme--the two Great Unknowns, the
two Illustrious Conjecturabilities!  They are the best-known unknown
persons that have ever drawn breath upon the planet.

For the instruction of the ignorant I will make a list, now, of those
details of Shakespeare's history which are FACTS--verified facts,
established facts, undisputed facts.



Facts

He was born on the 23d of April, 1564.

Of good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write, could
not sign their names.

At Stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby and
unclean, and densely illiterate.  Of the nineteen important men charged
with the government of the town, thirteen had to "make their mark" in
attesting important documents, because they could not write their names.

Of the first eighteen years of his life NOTHING is known. They are a
blank.

On the 27th of November (1582) William Shakespeare took out a license to
marry Anne Whateley.

Next day William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne Hathaway.
She was eight years his senior.

William Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway.  In a hurry.  By grace of a
reluctantly granted dispensation there was but one publication of the
banns.

Within six months the first child was born.

About two (blank) years followed, during which period NOTHING AT ALL
HAPPENED TO SHAKESPEARE, so far as anybody knows.

Then came twins--1585.  February.

Two blank years follow.

Then--1587--he makes a ten-year visit to London, leaving the family
behind.

Five blank years follow.  During this period NOTHING HAPPENED TO HIM, as
far as anybody actually knows.

Then--1592--there is mention of him as an actor.

Next year--1593--his name appears in the official list of players.

Next year--1594--he played before the queen.  A detail of no consequence:
other obscurities did it every year of the forty-five of her reign.  And
remained obscure.

Three pretty full years follow.  Full of play-acting.  Then

In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford.

Thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he accumulated
money, and also reputation as actor and manager.

Meantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become associated
with a number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly) author of the
same.

Some of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made no
protest.

Then--1610-11--he returned to Stratford and settled down for good and
all, and busied himself in lending money, trading in tithes, trading in
land and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one shillings, borrowed by his
wife during his long desertion of his family; suing debtors for shillings
and coppers; being sued himself for shillings and coppers; and acting as
confederate to a neighbor who tried to rob the town of its rights in a
certain common, and did not succeed.

He lived five or six years--till 1616--in the joy of these elevated
pursuits.  Then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages with
his name.

A thoroughgoing business man's will.  It named in minute detail every
item of property he owned in the world--houses, lands, sword, silver-gilt
bowl, and so on--all the way down to his "second-best bed" and its
furniture.

It carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the members
of his family, overlooking no individual of it.  Not even his wife: the
wife he had been enabled to marry in a hurry by urgent grace of a special
dispensation before he was nineteen; the wife whom he had left
husbandless so many years; the wife who had had to borrow forty-one
shillings in her need, and which the lender was never able to collect of
the prosperous husband, but died at last with the money still lacking.
No, even this wife was remembered in Shakespeare's will.

He left her that "second-best bed."

And NOT ANOTHER THING; not even a penny to bless her lucky widowhood
with.

It was eminently and conspicuously a business man's will, not a poet's.

It mentioned NOT A SINGLE BOOK.

Books were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls and
second-best beds in those days, and when a departing person owned one he
gave it a high place in his will.

The will mentioned NOT A PLAY, NOT A POEM, NOT AN UNFINISHED LITERARY
WORK, NOT A SCRAP OF MANUSCRIPT OF ANY KIND.

Many poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history that has
died THIS poor; the others all left literary remains behind.  Also a
book.  Maybe two.

If Shakespeare had owned a dog--but we not go into that: we know he would
have mentioned it in his will.  If a good dog, Susanna would have got it;
if an inferior one his wife would have got a downer interest in it.  I
wish he had had a dog, just so we could see how painstakingly he would
have divided that dog among the family, in his careful business way.

He signed the will in three places.

In earlier years he signed two other official documents.

These five signatures still exist.

There are NO OTHER SPECIMENS OF HIS PENMANSHIP IN EXISTENCE. Not a line.

Was he prejudiced against the art?  His granddaughter, whom he loved, was
eight years old when he died, yet she had had no teaching, he left no
provision for her education, although he was rich, and in her mature
womanhood she couldn't write and couldn't tell her husband's manuscript
from anybody else's--she thought it was Shakespeare's.

When Shakespeare died in Stratford, IT WAS NOT AN EVENT.  It made no more
stir in England than the death of any other forgotten theater-actor would
have made.  Nobody came down from London; there were no lamenting poems,
no eulogies, no national tears--there was merely silence, and nothing
more.  A striking contrast with what happened when Ben Jonson, and
Francis Bacon, and Spenser, and Raleigh, and the other distinguished
literary folk of Shakespeare's time passed from life!  No praiseful voice
was lifted for the lost Bard of Avon; even Ben Jonson waited seven years
before he lifted his.

SO FAR AS ANYBODY ACTUALLY KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, Shakespeare of
Stratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life.

SO FAR AS ANY ONE KNOWS, HE RECEIVED ONLY ONE LETTER DURING HIS LIFE.

So far as any one KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, Shakespeare of Stratford wrote
only one poem during his life.  This one is authentic.  He did write that
one--a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the whole of it; he wrote
the whole of it out of his own head.  He commanded that this work of art
be engraved upon his tomb, and he was obeyed.  There it abides to this
day.  This is it:

Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.

In the list as above set down will be found EVERY POSITIVELY KNOWN fact
of Shakespeare's life, lean and meager as the invoice is.  Beyond these
details we know NOT A THING about him.  All the rest of his vast history,
as furnished by the biographers, is built up, course upon course, of
guesses, inferences, theories, conjectures--an Eiffel Tower of
artificialities rising sky-high from a very flat and very thin foundation
of inconsequential facts.

IV

Conjectures

The historians "suppose" that Shakespeare attended the Free School in
Stratford from the time he was seven years old till he was thirteen.
There is no EVIDENCE in existence that he ever went to school at all.

The historians "infer" that he got his Latin in that school--the school
which they "suppose" he attended.

They "suppose" his father's declining fortunes made it necessary for him
to leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to work and help
support his parents and their ten children.  But there is no evidence
that he ever entered or returned from the school they suppose he
attended.

They "suppose" he assisted his father in the butchering business; and
that, being only a boy, he didn't have to do full-grown butchering, but
only slaughtering calves.  Also, that whenever he killed a calf he made a
high-flown speech over it. This supposition rests upon the testimony of a
man who wasn't there at the time; a man who got it from a man who could
have been there, but did not say whether he was nor not; and neither of
them thought to mention it for decades, and decades, and decades, and two
more decades after Shakespeare's death (until old age and mental decay
had refreshed and vivified their memories).  They hadn't two facts in
stock about the long-dead distinguished citizen, but only just the one:
he slaughtered calves and broke into oratory while he was at it.
Curious.  They had only one fact, yet the distinguished citizen had spent
twenty-six years in that little town--just half his lifetime. However,
rightly viewed, it was the most important fact, indeed almost the only
important fact, of Shakespeare's life in Stratford.  Rightly viewed.  For
experience is an author's most valuable asset; experience is the thing
that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into the book he
writes.  Rightly viewed, calf-butchering accounts for "Titus Andronicus,"
the only play--ain't it?--that the Stratford Shakespeare ever wrote; and
yet it is the only one everybody tried to chouse him out of, the
Baconians included.

The historians find themselves "justified in believing" that the young
Shakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy's deer preserves and got haled
before that magistrate for it.  But there is no shred of respectworthy
evidence that anything of the kind happened.

The historians, having argued the thing that MIGHT have happened into the
thing that DID happen, found no trouble in turning Sir Thomas Lucy into
Mr. Justice Shallow.  They have long ago convinced the world--on surmise
and without trustworthy evidence--that Shallow IS Sir Thomas.

The next addition to the young Shakespeare's Stratford history comes
easy.  The historian builds it out of the surmised deer-steeling, and the
surmised trial before the magistrate, and the surmised vengeance-prompted
satire upon the magistrate in the play: result, the young Shakespeare was
a wild, wild, wild, oh, SUCH a wild young scamp, and that gratuitous
slander is established for all time!  It is the very way Professor Osborn
and I built the colossal skeleton brontosaur that stands fifty-seven feet
long and sixteen feet high in the Natural History Museum, the awe and
admiration of all the world, the stateliest skeleton that exists on the
planet.  We had nine bones, and we built the rest of him out of plaster
of Paris.  We ran short of plaster of Paris, or we'd have built a
brontosaur that could sit down beside the Stratford Shakespeare and none
but an expert could tell which was biggest or contained the most plaster.

Shakespeare pronounced "Venus and Adonis" "the first heir of his
invention," apparently implying that it was his first effort at literary
composition.  He should not have said it.  It has been an embarrassment
to his historians these many, many years. They have to make him write
that graceful and polished and flawless and beautiful poem before he
escaped from Stratford and his family--1586 or '87--age, twenty-two, or
along there; because within the next five years he wrote five great
plays, and could not have found time to write another line.

It is sorely embarrassing.  If he began to slaughter calves, and poach
deer, and rollick around, and learn English, at the earliest likely
moment--say at thirteen, when he was supposably wretched from that school
where he was supposably storing up Latin for future literary use--he had
his youthful hands full, and much more than full.  He must have had to
put aside his Warwickshire dialect, which wouldn't be understood in
London, and study English very hard.  Very hard indeed; incredibly hard,
almost, if the result of that labor was to be the smooth and rounded and
flexible and letter-perfect English of the "Venus and Adonis" in the
space of ten years; and at the same time learn great and fine and
unsurpassable literary FORM.

However, it is "conjectured" that he accomplished all this and more, much
more: learned law and its intricacies; and the complex procedure of the
law-courts; and all about soldiering, and sailoring, and the manners and
customs and ways of royal courts and aristocratic society; and likewise
accumulated in his one head every kind of knowledge the learned then
possessed, and every kind of humble knowledge possessed by the lowly and
the ignorant; and added thereto a wider and more intimate knowledge of
the world's great literatures, ancient and modern, than was possessed by
any other man of his time--for he was going to make brilliant and easy
and admiration-compelling use of these splendid treasures the moment he
got to London.  And according to the surmisers, that is what he did.
Yes, although there was no one in Stratford able to teach him these
things, and no library in the little village to dig them out of.  His
father could not read, and even the surmisers surmise that he did not
keep a library.

It is surmised by the biographers that the young Shakespeare got his vast
knowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate acquaintance with the
manners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers through being for a time the
CLERK OF A STRATFORD COURT; just as a bright lad like me, reared in a
village on the banks of the Mississippi, might become perfect in
knowledge of the Bering Strait whale-fishery and the shop-talk of the
veteran exercises of that adventure-bristling trade through catching
catfish with a "trot-line" Sundays.  But the surmise is damaged by the
fact that there is no evidence--and not even tradition--that the young
Shakespeare was ever clerk of a law-court.

It is further surmised that the young Shakespeare accumulated his
law-treasures in the first years of his sojourn in London, through
"amusing himself" by learning book-law in his garret and by picking up
lawyer-talk and the rest of it through loitering about the law-courts and
listening.  But it is only surmise; there is no EVIDENCE that he ever did
either of those things.  They are merely a couple of chunks of plaster of
Paris.

There is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding horses in
front of the London theaters, mornings and afternoons.  Maybe he did.  If
he did, it seriously shortened his law-study hours and his
recreation-time in the courts.  In those very days he was writing great
plays, and needed all the time he could get.  The horse-holding legend
ought to be strangled; it too formidably increases the historian's
difficulty in accounting for the young Shakespeare's erudition--an
erudition which he was acquiring, hunk by hunk and chunk by chunk, every
day in those strenuous times, and emptying each day's catch into next
day's imperishable drama.

He had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a knowledge of
soldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and talk; also a
knowledge of some foreign lands and their languages: for he was daily
emptying fluent streams of these various knowledges, too, into his
dramas.  How did he acquire these rich assets?

In the usual way: by surmise.  It is SURMISED that he traveled in Italy
and Germany and around, and qualified himself to put their scenic and
social aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in French, Italian,
and Spanish on the road; that he went in Leicester's expedition to the
Low Countries, as soldier or sutler or something, for several months or
years--or whatever length of time a surmiser needs in his business--and
thus became familiar with soldiership and soldier-ways and soldier-talk
and generalship and general-ways and general-talk, and seamanship and
sailor-ways and sailor-talk.

Maybe he did all these things, but I would like to know who held the
horses in the mean time; and who studied the books in the garret; and who
frolicked in the law-courts for recreation. Also, who did the call-boying
and the play-acting.

For he became a call-boy; and as early as '93 he became a "vagabond"--the
law's ungentle term for an unlisted actor; and in '94 a "regular" and
properly and officially listed member of that (in those days) lightly
valued and not much respected profession.

Right soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theaters, and
manager of them.  Thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing business
man, and was raking in money with both hands for twenty years.  Then in a
noble frenzy of poetic inspiration he wrote his one poem--his only poem,
his darling--and laid him down and died:

Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones.

He was probably dead when he wrote it.  Still, this is only conjecture.
We have only circumstantial evidence.  Internal evidence.

Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute the giant
Biography of William Shakespeare?  It would strain the Unabridged
Dictionary to hold them.  He is a brontosaur: nine bones and six hundred
barrels of plaster of Paris.



V

"We May Assume"

In the Assuming trade three separate and independent cults are
transacting business.  Two of these cults are known as the Shakespearites
and the Baconians, and I am the other one--the Brontosaurian.

The Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's Works; the
Baconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote them; the Brontosaurian doesn't
really know which of them did it, but is quite composedly and contentedly
sure that Shakespeare DIDN'T, and strongly suspects that Bacon DID.  We
all have to do a good deal of assuming, but I am fairly certain that in
every case I can call to mind the Baconian assumers have come out ahead
of the Shakespearites.  Both parties handle the same materials, but the
Baconians seem to me to get much more reasonable and rational and
persuasive results out of them than is the case with the Shakespearites.
The Shakespearite conducts his assuming upon a definite principle, an
unchanging and immutable law: which is: 2 and 8 and 7 and 14, added
together, make 165.  I believe this to be an error.  No matter, you
cannot get a habit-sodden Shakespearite to cipher-up his materials upon
any other basis. With the Baconian it is different.  If you place before
him the above figures and set him to adding them up, he will never in any
case get more than 45 out of them, and in nine cases out of ten he will
get just the proper 31.

Let me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely way
calculated to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant and
unintelligent.  We will suppose a case: take a lap-bred, house-fed,
uneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a rugged old Tom that's scarred
from stem to rudder-post with the memorials of strenuous experience, and
is so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly erudite that one may say of
him "all cat-knowledge is his province"; also, take a mouse.  Lock the
three up in a holeless, crackless, exitless prison-cell.  Wait half an
hour, then open the cell, introduce a Shakespearite and a Baconian, and
let them cipher and assume.  The mouse is missing: the question to be
decided is, where is it?  You can guess both verdicts beforehand.  One
verdict will say the kitten contains the mouse; the other will as
certainly say the mouse is in the tom-cat.

The Shakespearite will Reason like this--(that is not my word, it is
his).  He will say the kitten MAY HAVE BEEN attending school when nobody
was noticing; therefore WE ARE WARRANTED IN ASSUMING that it did so;
also, it COULD HAVE BEEN training in a court-clerk's office when no one
was noticing; since that could have happened, WE ARE JUSTIFIED IN
ASSUMING that it did happen; it COULD HAVE STUDIED CATOLOGY IN A GARRET
when no one was noticing--therefore it DID; it COULD HAVE attended
cat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for recreation, when no one was
noticing, and have harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and cat
lawyer-talk in that way: it COULD have done it, therefore without a doubt
it DID; it COULD HAVE gone soldiering with a war-tribe when no one was
noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to do with
a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference, therefore, is that
that is what it DID.  Since all these manifold things COULD have
occurred, we have EVERY RIGHT TO BELIEVE they did occur.  These patiently
and painstakingly accumulated vast acquirements and competences needed
but one thing more--opportunity--to convert themselves into triumphal
action.  The opportunity came, we have the result; BEYOND SHADOW OF
QUESTION the mouse is in the kitten.

It is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a "WE THINK
WE MAY ASSUME," we expect it, under careful watering and fertilizing and
tending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and weather-defying "THERE
ISN'T A SHADOW OF A DOUBT" at last--and it usually happens.

We know what the Baconian's verdict would be: "THERE IS NOT A RAG OF
EVIDENCE THAT THE KITTEN HAS HAD ANY TRAINING, ANY EDUCATION, ANY
EXPERIENCE QUALIFYING IT FOR THE PRESENT OCCASION, OR IS INDEED EQUIPPED
FOR ANY ACHIEVEMENT ABOVE LIFTING SUCH UNCLAIMED MILK AS COMES ITS WAY;
BUT THERE IS ABUNDANT EVIDENCE--UNASSAILABLE PROOF, IN FACT--THAT THE
OTHER ANIMAL IS EQUIPPED, TO THE LAST DETAIL, WITH EVERY QUALIFICATION
NECESSARY FOR THE EVENT.  WITHOUT SHADOW OF DOUBT THE TOM-CAT CONTAINS
THE MOUSE."

VI

When Shakespeare died, in 1616, great literary productions attributed to
him as author had been before the London world and in high favor for
twenty-four years.  Yet his death was not an event.  It made no stir, it
attracted no attention.  Apparently his eminent literary contemporaries
did not realize that a celebrated poet had passed from their midst.
Perhaps they knew a play-actor of minor rank had disappeared, but did not
regard him as the author of his Works.  "We are justified in assuming"
this.

His death was not even an event in the little town of Stratford.  Does
this mean that in Stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity of ANY
kind?

"We are privileged to assume"--no, we are indeed OBLIGED to assume--that
such was the case.  He had spent the first twenty-two or twenty-three
years of his life there, and of course knew everybody and was known by
everybody of that day in the town, including the dogs and the cats and
the horses.  He had spent the last five or six years of his life there,
diligently trading in every big and little thing that had money in it; so
we are compelled to assume that many of the folk there in those said
latter days knew him personally, and the rest by sight and hearsay.  But
not as a CELEBRITY?  Apparently not.  For everybody soon forgot to
remember any contact with him or any incident connected with him.  The
dozens of townspeople, still alive, who had known of him or known about
him in the first twenty-three years of his life were in the same
unremembering condition: if they knew of any incident connected with that
period of his life they didn't tell about it.  Would the if they had been
asked?  It is most likely.  Were they asked?  It is pretty apparent that
they were not.  Why weren't they?  It is a very plausible guess that
nobody there or elsewhere was interested to know.

For seven years after Shakespeare's death nobody seems to have been
interested in him.  Then the quarto was published, and Ben Jonson awoke
out of his long indifference and sang a song of praise and put it in the
front of the book.  Then silence fell AGAIN.

For sixty years.  Then inquiries into Shakespeare's Stratford life began
to be made, of Stratfordians.  Of Stratfordians who had known Shakespeare
or had seen him?  No.  Then of Stratfordians who had seen people who had
known or seen people who had seen Shakespeare?  No.  Apparently the
inquires were only made of Stratfordians who were not Stratfordians of
Shakespeare's day, but later comers; and what they had learned had come
to them from persons who had not seen Shakespeare; and what they had
learned was not claimed as FACT, but only as legend--dim and fading and
indefinite legend; legend of the calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth
remembering either as history or fiction.

Has it ever happened before--or since--that a celebrated person who had
spent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where he was born
and reared, was able to slip out of this world and leave that village
voiceless and gossipless behind him--utterly voiceless., utterly
gossipless?  And permanently so? I don't believe it has happened in any
case except Shakespeare's. And couldn't and wouldn't have happened in his
case if he had been regarded as a celebrity at the time of his death.

When I examine my own case--but let us do that, and see if it will not be
recognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite likely to result,
most likely to result, indeed substantially SURE to result in the case of
a celebrated person, a benefactor of the human race.  Like me.

My parents brought me to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks
of the Mississippi, when I was two and a half years old.  I entered
school at five years of age, and drifted from one school to another in
the village during nine and a half years. Then my father died, leaving
his family in exceedingly straitened circumstances; wherefore my
book-education came to a standstill forever, and I became a printer's
apprentice, on board and clothes, and when the clothes failed I got a
hymn-book in place of them.  This for summer wear, probably.  I lived in
Hannibal fifteen and a half years, altogether, then ran away, according
to the custom of persons who are intending to become celebrated.  I never
lived there afterward.  Four years later I became a "cub" on a
Mississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade, and after a
year and a half of hard study and hard work the U.S. inspectors
rigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings and decided that
I knew every inch of the Mississippi--thirteen hundred miles--in the dark
and in the day--as well as a baby knows the way to its mother's paps day
or night.  So they licensed me as a pilot--knighted me, so to speak--and
I rose up clothed with authority, a responsible servant of the United
States Government.

Now then.  Shakespeare died young--he was only fifty-two. He had lived in
his native village twenty-six years, or about that.  He died celebrated
(if you believe everything you read in the books).  Yet when he died
nobody there or elsewhere took any notice of it; and for sixty years
afterward no townsman remembered to say anything about him or about his
life in Stratford.  When the inquirer came at last he got but one fact
--no, LEGEND--and got that one at second hand, from a person who had only
heard it as a rumor and didn't claim copyright in it as a production of
his own.  He couldn't, very well, for its date antedated his own
birth-date.  But necessarily a number of persons were still alive in
Stratford who, in the days of their youth, had seen Shakespeare nearly
every day in the last five years of his life, and they would have been
able to tell that inquirer some first-hand things about him if he had in
those last days been a celebrity and therefore a person of interest to
the villagers.  Why did not the inquirer hunt them up and interview them?
Wasn't it worth while?  Wasn't the matter of sufficient consequence?  Had
the inquirer an engagement to see a dog-fight and couldn't spare the
time?

It all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity, there or
elsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and manager.

Now then, I am away along in life--my seventy-third year being already
well behind me--yet SIXTEEN of my Hannibal schoolmates are still alive
today, and can tell--and do tell--inquirers dozens and dozens of
incidents of their young lives and mine together; things that happened to
us in the morning of life, in the blossom of our youth, in the good days,
the dear days, "the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago."  Most
of them creditable to me, too.  One child to whom I paid court when she
was five years old and I eight still lives in Hannibal, and she visited
me last summer, traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundred miles of
railroad without damage to her patience or to her old-young vigor.
Another little lassie to whom I paid attention in Hannibal when she was
nine years old and I the same, is still alive--in London--and hale and
hearty, just as I am. And on the few surviving steamboats--those
lingering ghosts and remembrancers of great fleets that plied the big
river in the beginning of my water-career--which is exactly as long ago
as the whole invoice of the life-years of Shakespeare numbers--there are
still findable two or three river-pilots who saw me do creditable things
in those ancient days; and several white-headed engineers; and several
roustabouts and mates; and several deck-hands who used to heave the lead
for me and send up on the still night the "Six--feet--SCANT!" that made
me shudder, and the "M-a-r-k--TWAIN!" that took the shudder away, and
presently the darling "By the d-e-e-p--FOUR!" that lifted me to heaven
for joy. [1]  They know about me, and can tell.  And so do printers, from
St. Louis to New York; and so do newspaper reporters, from Nevada to San
Francisco.  And so do the police.  If Shakespeare had really been
celebrated, like me, Stratford could have told things about him; and if
my experience goes for anything, they'd have done it.

------ 1.  Four fathoms--twenty-four feet.



VII

If I had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decide
whether Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or not, I believe I would place
before the debaters only the one question, WAS SHAKESPEARE EVER A
PRACTICING LAWYER? and leave everything else out.

It is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merely
myriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplished: that he not only knew some
thousands of things about human life in all its shades and grades, and
about the hundred arts and trades and crafts and professions which men
busy themselves in, but that he could TALK about the men and their grades
and trades accurately, making no mistakes.  Maybe it is so, but have the
experts spoken, or is it only Tom, Dick, and Harry?  Does the exhibit
stand upon wide, and loose, and eloquent generalizing--which is not
evidence, and not proof--or upon details, particulars, statistics,
illustrations, demonstrations?

Experts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as to only
one of Shakespeare's multifarious craft-equipments, so far as my
recollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk abide with me--his law-equipment.
I do not remember that Wellington or Napoleon ever examined Shakespeare's
battles and sieges and strategies, and then decided and established for
good and all that they were militarily flawless; I do not remember that
any Nelson, or Drake, or Cook ever examined his seamanship and said it
showed profound and accurate familiarity with that art; I don't remember
that any king or prince or duke has ever testified that Shakespeare was
letter-perfect in his handling of royal court-manners and the talk and
manners of aristocracies; I don't remember that any illustrious Latinist
or Grecian or Frenchman or Spaniard or Italian has proclaimed him a
past-master in those languages; I don't remember--well, I don't remember
that there is TESTIMONY--great testimony--imposing
testimony--unanswerable and unattackable testimony as to any of
Shakespeare's hundred specialties, except one--the law.

Other things change, with time, and the student cannot trace back with
certainty the changes that various trades and their processes and
technicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century or two and
find out what their processes and technicalities were in those early
days, but with the law it is different: it is mile-stoned and documented
all the way back, and the master of that wonderful trade, that complex
and intricate trade, that awe-compelling trade, has competent ways of
knowing whether Shakespeare-law is good law or not; and whether his
law-court procedure is correct or not, and whether his legal shop-talk is
the shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only a machine-made
counterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional loiterings in
Westminster.

Richard H. Dana served two years before the mast, and had every
experience that falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of our
day.  His sailor-talk flows from his pen with the sure touch and the ease
and confidence of a person who has LIVED what he is talking about, not
gathered it from books and random listenings.  Hear him:

Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of each sail
fast by the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the whole canvas
of the ship was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity possible
everything was sheeted home and hoisted up, the anchor tripped and
cat-headed, and the ship under headway.

Again:

The royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sails set,
and, as we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all were aloft,
active as cats, laying out on the yards and booms, reeving the
studding-sail gear; and sail after sail the captain piled upon her, until
she was covered with canvas, her sails looking like a great white cloud
resting upon a black speck.

Once more.  A race in the Pacific:

Our antagonist was in her best trim.  Being clear of the point, the
breeze became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but we
would not take them in until we saw three boys spring into the rigging of
the CALIFORNIA; then they were all furled at once, but with orders to our
boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads and loose them again at
the word.  It was my duty to furl the fore-royal; and while standing by
to loose it again, I had a fine view of the scene.  From where I stood,
the two vessels seemed nothing but spars and sails, while their narrow
decks, far below, slanting over by the force of the wind aloft, appeared
hardly capable of supporting the great fabrics raised upon them.  The
CALIFORNIA was to windward of us, and had every advantage; yet, while the
breeze was stiff we held our own. As soon as it began to slacken she
ranged a little ahead, and the order was given to loose the royals.  In
an instant the gaskets were off and the bunt dropped.  "Sheet home the
fore-royal!"--"Weather sheet's home!"--"Lee sheet's home!"--"Hoist away,
sir!" is bawled from aloft.  "Overhaul your clew-lines!" shouts the mate.
"Aye-aye, sir, all clear!"--"Taut leech! belay!  Well the lee brace; haul
taut to windward!" and the royals are set.

What would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to that?
He would say, "The man that wrote that didn't learn his trade out of a
book, he has BEEN there!"  But would this same captain be competent to
sit in judgment upon Shakespeare's seamanship--considering the changes in
ships and ship-talk that have necessarily taken place, unrecorded,
unremembered, and lost to history in the last three hundred years?  It is
my conviction that Shakespeare's sailor-talk would be Choctaw to him.
For instance--from "The Tempest":

MASTER.  Boatswain!

BOATSWAIN.  Here, master; what cheer?

MASTER.  Good, speak to the mariners: fall to 't, yarely, or we run
ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir! (ENTER MARINERS.)

BOATSWAIN.  Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare!
Take in the topsail.  Tend to the master's whistle. . . .  Down with the
topmast! yare! lower, lower!  Bring her to try wi' the main course. . . .
Lay her a-hold, a-hold!  Set her two courses.  Off to sea again; lay her
off.

That will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a change.

If a man should write a book and in it make one of his characters say,
"Here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and the
imposing-stone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the frisket
and let them jeff for takes and be quick about it," I should recognize a
mistake or two in the phrasing, and would know that the writer was only a
printer theoretically, not practically.

I have been a quartz miner in the silver regions--a pretty hard life; I
know all the palaver of that business: I know all about discovery claims
and the subordinate claims; I know all about lodes, ledges, outcroppings,
dips, spurs, angles, shafts, drifts, inclines, levels, tunnels,
air-shafts, "horses," clay casings, granite casings; quartz mills and
their batteries; arastras, and how to charge them with quicksilver and
sulphate of copper; and how to clean them up, and how to reduce the
resulting amalgam in the retorts, and how to cast the bullion into pigs;
and finally I know how to screen tailings, and also how to hunt for
something less robust to do, and find it.  I know the argot and the
quartz-mining and milling industry familiarly; and so whenever Bret Harte
introduces that industry into a story, the first time one of his miners
opens his mouth I recognize from his phrasing that Harte got the phrasing
by listening--like Shakespeare--I mean the Stratford one--not by
experience.  No one can talk the quartz dialect correctly without
learning it with pick and shovel and drill and fuse.

I have been a surface miner--gold--and I know all its mysteries, and the
dialects that belongs with them; and whenever Harte introduces that
industry into a story I know by the phrasing of his characters that
neither he nor they have ever served that trade.

I have been a "pocket" miner--a sort of gold mining not findable in any
but one little spot in the world, so far as I know.  I know how, with
horn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace it step by step
and stage by stage up the mountain to its source, and find the compact
little nest of yellow metal reposing in its secret home under the ground.
I know the language of that trade, that capricious trade, that
fascinating buried-treasure trade, and can catch any writer who tries to
use it without having learned it by the sweat of his brow and the labor
of his hands.

I know several other trades and the argot that goes with them; and
whenever a person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them without
having learned it at its source I can trap him always before he gets far
on his road.

And so, as I have already remarked, if I were required to superintend a
Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would narrow the matter down to a single
question--the only one, so far as the previous controversies have
informed me, concerning which illustrious experts of unimpeachable
competency have testified: WAS THE AUTHOR OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS A
LAWYER?--a lawyer deeply read and of limitless experience?  I would put
aside the guesses and surmises, and perhapes, and might-have-beens, and
could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and we-are-justified-in-
presumings,and the rest of those vague specters and shadows and
indefintenesses, and stand or fall, win or lose, by the verdict rendered
by the jury upon that single question.  If the verdict was Yes, I should
feel quite convinced that the Stratford Shakespeare, the actor, manager,
and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, so destitute of even
village consequence, that sixty years afterward no fellow-citizen and
friend of his later days remembered to tell anything about him, did not
write the Works.

Chapter XIII of THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM RESTATED bears the heading
"Shakespeare as a Lawyer," and comprises some fifty pages of expert
testimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine, as
being sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settle the
question which I have conceived to be the master-key to the
Shakespeare-Bacon puzzle.



VIII

Shakespeare as a Lawyer [1]

The Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply ample evidence that their
author not only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law, but
that he was well acquainted with the manners and customs of members of
the Inns of Court and with legal life generally.

"While novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as to the
laws of marriage, of wills, of inheritance, to Shakespeare's law,
lavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill of
exceptions, nor writ of error."  Such was the testimony borne by one of
the most distinguished lawyers of the nineteenth century who was raised
to the high office of Lord Chief Justice in 1850, and subsequently became
Lord Chancellor.  Its weight will, doubtless, be more appreciated by
lawyers than by laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it is for
those who have not served an apprenticeship to the law to avoid
displaying their ignorance if they venture to employ legal terms and to
discuss legal doctrines.  "There is nothing so dangerous," wrote Lord
Campbell, "as for one not of the craft to tamper with our freemasonry."
A layman is certain to betray himself by using some expression which a
lawyer would never employ.  Mr. Sidney Lee himself supplies us with an
example of this.  He writes (p. 164): "On February 15, 1609, Shakespeare
. . . obtained judgment from a jury against Addenbroke for the payment of
No. 6, and No. 1, 5s. 0d. costs."  Now a lawyer would never have spoken
of obtaining "judgment from a jury," for it is the function of a jury not
to deliver judgment (which is the prerogative of the court), but to find
a verdict on the facts. The error is, indeed, a venial one, but it is
just one of those little things which at once enable a lawyer to know if
the writer is a layman or "one of the craft."

But when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, he is
naturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence.  "Let a
non-professional man, however acute," writes Lord Campbell again,
"presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science in
discussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into laughable
absurdity."

And what does the same high authority say about Shakespeare? He had "a
deep technical knowledge of the law," and an easy familiarity with "some
of the most abstruse proceedings in English jurisprudence."  And again:
"Whenever he indulges this propensity he uniformly lays down good law."
Of "Henry IV.," Part 2, he says: "If Lord Eldon could be supposed to have
written the play, I do not see how he could be chargeable with having
forgotten any of his law while writing it."  Charles and Mary Cowden
Clarke speak of "the marvelous intimacy which he displays with legal
terms, his frequent adoption of them in illustration, and his curiously
technical knowledge of their form and force." Malone, himself a lawyer,
wrote: "His knowledge of legal terms is not merely such as might be
acquired by the casual observation of even his all-comprehending mind; it
has the appearance of technical skill."  Another lawyer and well-known
Shakespearean, Richard Grant White, says: "No dramatist of the time, not
even Beaumont, who was the younger son of a judge of the Common Pleas,
and who after studying in the Inns of Court abandoned law for the drama,
used legal phrases with Shakespeare's readiness and exactness.  And the
significance of this fact is heightened by another, that is only to the
language of the law that he exhibits this inclination.  The phrases
peculiar to other occupations serve him on rare occasions by way of
description, comparison, or illustration, generally when something in the
scene suggests them, but legal phrases flow from his pen as part of his
vocabulary and parcel of his thought.  Take the word 'purchase' for
instance, which, in ordinary use, means to acquire by giving value, but
applies in law to all legal modes of obtaining property except by
inheritance or descent, and in this peculiar sense the word occurs five
times in Shakespeare's thirty-four plays, and only in one single instance
in the fifty-four plays of Beaumont and Fletcher.  It has been suggested
that it was in attendance upon the courts in London that he picked up his
legal vocabulary.  But this supposition not only fails to account for
Shakespeare's peculiar freedom and exactness in the use of that
phraseology, it does not even place him in the way of learning those
terms his use of which is most remarkable, which are not such as he would
have heard at ordinary proceedings at NISI PRIUS, but such as refer to
the tenure or transfer of real property, 'fine and recovery,' 'statutes
merchant,' 'purchase,' 'indenture,' 'tenure,' 'double voucher,' 'fee
simple,' 'fee farm,' 'remainder,' 'reversion,' 'forfeiture,' etc. This
conveyancer's jargon could not have been picked up by hanging round the
courts of law in London two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to
the title of real property were comparatively rare.  And besides,
Shakespeare uses his law just as freely in his first plays, written in
his first London years, as in those produced at a later period.  Just as
exactly, too; for the correctness and propriety with which these terms
are introduced have compelled the admiration of a Chief Justice and a
Lord Chancellor."

Senator Davis wrote: "We seem to have something more than a sciolist's
temerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar art.  No legal
solecisms will be found.  The abstrusest elements of the common law are
impressed into a disciplined service.  Over and over again, where such
knowledge is unexampled in writers unlearned in the law, Shakespeare
appears in perfect possession of it.  In the law of real property, its
rules of tenure and descents, its entails, its fines and recoveries,
their vouchers and double vouchers, in the procedure of the Courts, the
method of bringing writs and arrests, the nature of actions, the rules of
pleading, the law of escapes and of contempt of court, in the principles
of evidence, both technical and philosophical, in the distinction between
the temporal and spiritual tribunals, in the law of attainder and
forfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage, in the presumption of
legitimacy, in the learning of the law of prerogative, in the inalienable
character of the Crown, this mastership appears with surprising
authority."

To all this testimony (and there is much more which I have not cited) may
now be added that of a great lawyer of our own times, VIZ.: Sir James
Plaisted Wilde, Q.C. 1855, created a Baron of the Exchequer in 1860,
promoted to the post of Judge-Ordinary and Judge of the Courts of Probate
and Divorce in 1863, and better known to the world as Lord Penzance, to
which dignity he was raised in 1869.  Lord Penzance, as all lawyers know,
and as the late Mr. Inderwick, K.C., has testified, was one of the first
legal authorities of his day, famous for his "remarkable grasp of legal
principles," and "endowed by nature with a remarkable facility for
marshaling facts, and for a clear expression of his views."

Lord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare's "perfect familiarity with not only
the principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of English
law, a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never incorrect and
never at fault. . . . The mode in which this knowledge was pressed into
service on all occasions to express his meaning and illustrate his
thoughts was quite unexampled.  He seems to have had a special pleasure
in his complete and ready mastership of it in all its branches.  As
manifested in the plays, this legal knowledge and learning had therefore
a special character which places it on a wholly different footing from
the rest of the multifarious knowledge which is exhibited in page after
page of the plays.  At every turn and point at which the author required
a metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned FIRST to the
law.  He seems almost to have THOUGHT in legal phrases, the commonest of
legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in description or
illustration.  That he should have descanted in lawyer language when he
had a forensic subject in hand, such as Shylock's bond, was to be
expected, but the knowledge of law in 'Shakespeare' was exhibited in a
far different manner: it protruded itself on all occasions, appropriate
or inappropriate, and mingled itself with strains of thought widely
divergent from forensic subjects." Again: "To acquire a perfect
familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the
technical terms and phrases not only of the conveyancer's office, but of
the pleader's chambers and the Courts at Westminster, nothing short of
employment in some career involving constant contact with legal questions
and general legal work would be requisite.  But a continuous employment
involves the element of time, and time was just what the manager of two
theaters had not at his disposal. In what portion of Shakespeare's (i.e.,
Shakspere's) career would it be possible to point out that time could be
found for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or
offices of practicing lawyers?"

Stratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possible
explanation of Shakespeare's extraordinary knowledge of law, have made
the suggestion that Shakespeare might, conceivably, have been a clerk in
an attorney's office before he came to London.  Mr. Collier wrote to Lord
Campbell to ask his opinion as to the probability of this being true.
His answer was as follows: "You require us to believe implicitly a fact,
of which, if true, positive and irrefragable evidence in his own
handwriting might have been forthcoming to establish it.  Not having been
actually enrolled as an attorney, neither the records of the local court
at Stratford nor of the superior Court at Westminster would present his
name as being concerned in any suit as an attorney, but it might
reasonably have been expected that there would be deeds or wills
witnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent search none such
can be discovered."

Upon this Lord Penzance commends: "It cannot be doubted that Lord
Campbell was right in this.  No young man could have been at work in an
attorney's office without being called upon continually to act as a
witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name."
There is not a single fact or incident in all that is known of
Shakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, which supports this notion of a
clerkship.  And after much argument and surmise which has been indulged
in on this subject, we may, I think, safely put the notion on one side,
for no less an authority than Mr. Grant White says finally that the idea
of his having been clerk to an attorney has been "blown to pieces."

It is altogether characteristic of Mr. Churton Collins that he,
nevertheless, adopts this exploded myth.  "That Shakespeare was in early
life employed as a clerk in an attorney's office may be correct.  At
Stratford there was by royal charter a Court of Record sitting every
fortnight, with six attorneys, besides the town clerk, belonging to it,
and it is certainly not straining probability to suppose that the young
Shakespeare may have had employment in one of them.  There is, it is
true, no tradition to this effect, but such traditions as we have about
Shakespeare's occupation between the time of leaving school and going to
London are so loose and baseless that no confidence can be placed in
them.  It is, to say the least, more probable that he was in an
attorney's office than that he was a butcher killing calves 'in a high
style,' and making speeches over them."

This is a charming specimen of Stratfordian argument.  There is, as we
have seen, a very old tradition that Shakespeare was a butcher's
apprentice.  John Dowdall, who made a tour of Warwickshire in 1693,
testifies to it as coming from the old clerk who showed him over the
church, and it is unhesitatingly accepted as true by Mr.
Halliwell-Phillipps.  (Vol. I, p. 11, and Vol. II, pp. 71, 72.)  Mr.
Sidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is supported by Aubrey,
who must have written his account some time before 1680, when his
manuscript was completed. Of the attorney's clerk hypothesis, on the
other hand, there is not the faintest vestige of a tradition.  It has
been evolved out of the fertile imaginations of embarrassed
Stratfordians, seeking for some explanation of the Stratford rustic's
marvelous acquaintance with law and legal terms and legal life.  But Mr.
Churton Collins has not the least hesitation in throwing over the
tradition which has the warrant of antiquity and setting up in its stead
this ridiculous invention, for which not only is there no shred of
positive evidence, but which, as Lord Campbell and Lord Penzance pointed
out, is really put out of court by the negative evidence, since "no young
man could have been at work in an attorney's office without being called
upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving
traces of his work and name."  And as Mr. Edwards further points out,
since the day when Lord Campbell's book was published (between forty and
fifty years ago), "every old deed or will, to say nothing of other legal
papers, dated during the period of William Shakespeare's youth, has been
scrutinized over half a dozen shires, and not one signature of the young
man has been found."

Moreover, if Shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney's office it
is clear that he must have served for a considerable period in order to
have gained (if, indeed, it is credible that he could have so gained) his
remarkable knowledge of the law. Can we then for a moment believe that,
if this had been so, tradition would have been absolutely silent on the
matter? That Dowdall's old clerk, over eighty years of age, should have
never heard of it (though he was sure enough about the butcher's
apprentice) and that all the other ancient witnesses should be in similar
ignorance!

But such are the methods of Stratfordian controversy. Tradition is to be
scouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as irrefragable truth
when it suits the case.  Shakespeare of Stratford was the author of the
Plays and Poems, but the author of the Plays and Poems could not have
been a butcher's apprentice.  Anyway, therefore, with tradition.  But the
author of the Plays and Poems MUST have had a very large and a very
accurate knowledge of the law.  Therefore, Shakespeare of Stratford must
have been an attorney's clerk!  The method is simplicity itself.  By
similar reasoning Shakespeare has been made a country schoolmaster, a
soldier, a physician, a printer, and a good many other things besides,
according to the inclination and the exigencies of the commentator.  It
would not be in the least surprising to find that he was studying Latin
as a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's office at the same time.

However, we must do Mr. Collins the justice of saying that he has fully
recognized, what is indeed tolerable obvious, that Shakespeare must have
had a sound legal training.  "It may, of course, be urged," he writes,
"that Shakespeare's knowledge of medicine, and particularly that branch
of it which related to morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, and that
no one has ever contended that he was a physician.  (Here Mr. Collins is
wrong; that contention also has been put forward.)  It may be urged that
his acquaintance with the technicalities of other crafts and callings,
notably of marine and military affairs, was also extraordinary, and yet
no one has suspected him of being a sailor or a soldier.  (Wrong again.
Why, even Messrs. Garnett and Gosse "suspect" that he was a soldier!)
This may be conceded, but the concession hardly furnishes an analogy.  To
these and all other subjects he recurs occasionally, and in season, but
with reminiscences of the law his memory, as is abundantly clear, was
simply saturated.  In season and out of season now in manifest, now in
recondite application, he presses it into the service of expression and
illustration.  At least a third of his myriad metaphors are derived from
it.  It would indeed be difficult to find a single act in any of his
dramas, nay, in some of them, a single scene, the diction and imagery of
which are not colored by it.  Much of his law may have been acquired from
three books easily accessible to him--namely, Tottell's PRECEDENTS
(1572), Pulton's STATUTES (1578), and Fraunce's LAWIER'S LOGIKE (1588),
works with which he certainly seems to have been familiar; but much of it
could only have come from one who had an intimate acquaintance with legal
proceedings. We quite agree with Mr. Castle that Shakespeare's legal
knowledge is not what could have been picked up in an attorney's office,
but could only have been learned by an actual attendance at the Courts,
at a Pleader's Chambers, and on circuit, or by associating intimately
with members of the Bench and Bar."

This is excellent.  But what is Mr. Collins's explanation? "Perhaps the
simplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis that in
early life he was in an attorney's office (!), that he there contracted a
love for the law which never left him, that as a young man in London he
continued to study or dabble in it for his amusement, to stroll in
leisure hours into the Courts, and to frequent the society of lawyers.
On no other supposition is it possible to explain the attraction which
the law evidently had for him, and his minute and undeviating accuracy in
a subject where no layman who has indulged in such copious and
ostentatious display of legal technicalities has ever yet succeeded in
keeping himself from tripping."

A lame conclusion.  "No other supposition" indeed! Yes, there is another,
and a very obvious supposition--namely, that Shakespeare was himself a
lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the ways of the courts,
and living in close intimacy with judges and members of the Inns of
Court.

One is, of course, thankful that Mr. Collins has appreciated the fact
that Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but I may be
forgiven if I do not attach quite so much importance to his
pronouncements on this branch of the subject as to those of Malone, Lord
Campbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K.C., Lord Penzance, Mr. Grant White,
and other lawyers, who have expressed their opinion on the matter of
Shakespeare's legal acquirements. . . .

Here it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from Lord Penzance's
book as to the suggestion that Shakespeare had somehow or other managed
"to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate
and ready use of the technical terms and phrases, not only of the
conveyancer's office, but of the pleader's chambers and the Courts at
Westminster."  This, as Lord Penzance points out, "would require nothing
short of employment in some career involving CONSTANT CONTACT with legal
questions and general legal work."  But "in what portion of Shakespeare's
career would it be possible to point out that time could be found for the
interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of
practicing lawyers? . . .  It is beyond doubt that at an early period he
was called upon to abandon his attendance at school and assist his
father, and was soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound apprentice to a
trade.  While under the obligation of this bond he could not have pursued
any other employment.  Then he leaves Stratford and comes to London.  He
has to provide himself with the means of a livelihood, and this he did in
some capacity at the theater.  No one doubts that.  The holding of horses
is scouted by many, and perhaps with justice, as being unlikely and
certainly unproved; but whatever the nature of his employment was at the
theater, there is hardly room for the belief that it could have been
other than continuous, for his progress there was so rapid.  Ere long he
had been taken into the company as an actor, and was soon spoken of as a
'Johannes Factotum.'  His rapid accumulation of wealth speaks volumes for
the constancy and activity of his services.  One fails to see when there
could be a break in the current of his life at this period of it, giving
room or opportunity for legal or indeed any other employment.  'In 1589,'
says Knight, 'we have undeniable evidence that he had not only a casual
engagement, was not only a salaried servant, as may players were, but was
a shareholder in the company of the Queen's players with other
shareholders below him on the list.'  This (1589) would be within two
years after his arrival in London, which is placed by White and
Halliwell-Phillipps about the year 1587.  The difficulty in supposing
that, starting with a state of ignorance in 1587, when he is supposed to
have come to London, he was induced to enter upon a course of most
extended study and mental culture, is almost insuperable. Still it was
physically possible, provided always that he could have had access to the
needful books.  But this legal training seems to me to stand on a
different footing.  It is not only unaccountable and incredible, but it
is actually negatived by the known facts of his career."  Lord Penzance
then refers to the fact that "by 1592 (according to the best authority,
Mr. Grant White) several of the plays had been written.  'The Comedy of
Errors' in 1589, 'Love's Labour's Lost' in 1589, 'Two Gentlemen of
Verona' in 1589 or 1590," and so forth, and then asks, "with this
catalogue of dramatic work on hand . . . was it possible that he could
have taken a leading part in the management and conduct of two theaters,
and if Mr. Phillipps is to be relied upon, taken his share in the
performances of the provincial tours of his company--and at the same time
devoted himself to the study of the law in all its branches so
efficiently as to make himself complete master of its principles and
practice, and saturate his mind with all its most technical terms?"

I have cited this passage from Lord Penzance's book, because it lay
before me, and I had already quoted from it on the matter of
Shakespeare's legal knowledge; but other writers have still better set
forth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which beset the
idea that Shakespeare might have found them in some unknown period of
early life, amid multifarious other occupations, for the study of
classics, literature, and law, to say nothing of languages and a few
other matters.  Lord Penzance further asks his readers: "Did you ever
meet with or hear of an instance in which a young man in this country
gave himself up to legal studies and engaged in legal employments, which
is the only way of becoming familiar with the technicalities of practice,
unless with the view of practicing in that profession?  I do not believe
that it would be easy, or indeed possible, to produce an instance in
which the law has been seriously studied in all its branches, except as a
qualification for practice in the legal profession."

This testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and so
uncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so's, and
might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and the rest
of that ton of plaster of Paris out of which the biographers have built
the colossal brontosaur which goes by the Stratford actor's name, that it
quite convinces me that the man who wrote Shakespeare's Works knew all
about law and lawyers. Also, that that man could not have been the
Stratford Shakespeare--and WASN'T.

Who did write these Works, then?

I wish I knew.

----- 1.  From Chapter XIII of THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM RESTATED. By
George G. Greenwood, M.P.  John Lane Company, publishers.



IX

Did Francis Bacon write Shakespeare's Works?  Nobody knows.

We cannot say we KNOW a thing when that thing has not been proved.  KNOW
is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and absolutely
conclusive.  We can infer, if we want to, like those slaves. . . .  No, I
will not write that word, it is not kind, it is not courteous.  The
upholders of the Stratford-Shakespeare superstition call US the hardest
names they can think of, and they keep doing it all the time; very well,
if they like to descend to that level, let them do it, but I will not so
undignify myself as to follow them.  I cannot call them harsh names; the
most I can do is to indicate them by terms reflecting my disapproval; and
this without malice, without venom.

To resume.  What I was about to say was, those thugs have built their
entire superstition upon INFERENCES, not upon known and established
facts.  It is a weak method, and poor, and I am glad to be able to say
our side never resorts to it while there is anything else to resort to.

But when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of that
sort. . . .  Since the Stratford Shakespeare couldn't have written the
Works, we infer that somebody did. Who was it, then?  This requires some
more inferring.

Ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like a tidal
wave whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of admiration, delight,
and applause, a dozen obscure people rise up and claim the authorship.
Why a dozen, instead of only one or two?  One reason is, because there
are a dozen that are recognizably competent to do that poem.  Do you
remember "Beautiful Snow"?  Do you remember "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother,
Rock Me to Sleep"?  Do you remember "Backward, turn, backward, O Time, in
thy flight!  Make me a child again just for tonight"?  I remember them
very well.  Their authorship was claimed by most of the grown-up people
who were alive at the time, and every claimant had one plausible argument
in his favor, at least--to wit, he could have done the authoring; he was
competent.

Have the Works been claimed by a dozen?  They haven't. There was good
reason.  The world knows there was but one man on the planet at the time
who was competent--not a dozen, and not two.  A long time ago the
dwellers in a far country used now and then to find a procession of
prodigious footprints stretching across the plain--footprints that were
three miles apart, each footprint a third of a mile long and a furlong
deep, and with forests and villages mashed to mush in it.  Was there any
doubt as to who made that mighty trail?  Were there a dozen claimants?
Where there two?  No--the people knew who it was that had been along
there: there was only one Hercules.

There has been only one Shakespeare.  There couldn't be two; certainly
there couldn't be two at the same time.  It takes ages to bring forth a
Shakespeare, and some more ages to match him. This one was not matched
before his time; nor during his time; and hasn't been matched since.  The
prospect of matching him in our time is not bright.

The Baconians claim that the Stratford Shakespeare was not qualified to
write the Works, and that Francis Bacon was. They claim that Bacon
possessed the stupendous equipment--both natural and acquired--for the
miracle; and that no other Englishman of his day possessed the like; or,
indeed, anything closely approaching it.

Macaulay, in his Essay, has much to say about the splendor and
horizonless magnitude of that equipment.  Also, he has synopsized Bacon's
history--a thing which cannot be done for the Stratford Shakespeare, for
he hasn't any history to synopsize. Bacon's history is open to the world,
from his boyhood to his death in old age--a history consisting of known
facts, displayed in minute and multitudinous detail; FACTS, not guesses
and conjectures and might-have-beens.

Whereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had a
Lord Chancellor for his father, and a mother who was "distinguished both
as a linguist and a theologian: she corresponded in Greek with Bishop
Jewell, and translated his APOLOGIA from the Latin so correctly that
neither he nor Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration."  It
is the atmosphere we are reared in that determines how our inclinations
and aspirations shall tend.  The atmosphere furnished by the parents to
the son in this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning;
with thinkings and ponderings upon deep subjects; and with polite
culture.  It had its natural effect. Shakespeare of Stratford was reared
in a house which had no use for books, since its owners, his parents,
were without education. This may have had an effect upon the son, but we
do not know, because we have no history of him of an informing sort.
There were but few books anywhere, in that day, and only the well-to-do
and highly educated possessed them, they being almost confined to the
dead languages.  "All the valuable books then extant in all the
vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single
shelf"--imagine it!  The few existing books were in the Latin tongue
mainly.  "A person who was ignorant of it was shut out from all
acquaintance--not merely with Cicero and Virgil, but with the most
interesting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time"--a
literature necessary to the Stratford lad, for his fictitious
reputation's sake, since the writer of his Works would begin to use it
wholesale and in a most masterly way before the lad was hardly more than
out of his teens and into his twenties.

At fifteen Bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three years
there.  Thence he went to Paris in the train of the English Ambassador,
and there he mingled daily with the wise, the cultured, the great, and
the aristocracy of fashion, during another three years.  A total of six
years spent at the sources of knowledge; knowledge both of books and of
men.  The three spent at the university were coeval with the second and
last three spent by the little Stratford lad at Stratford school
supposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, and by inference--with nothing to
infer from.  The second three of the Baconian six were "presumably" spent
by the Stratford lad as apprentice to a butcher.  That is, the thugs
presume it--on no evidence of any kind.  Which is their way, when they
want a historical fact. Fact and presumption are, for business purposes,
all the same to them.  They know the difference, but they also know how
to blink it.  They know, too, that while in history-building a fact is
better than a presumption, it doesn't take a presumption long to bloom
into a fact when THEY have the handling of it.  They know by old
experience that when they get hold of a presumption-tadpole he is not
going to STAY tadpole in their history-tank; no, they know how to develop
him into the giant four-legged bullfrog of FACT, and make him sit up on
his hams, and puff out his chin, and look important and insolent and
come-to-stay; and assert his genuine simon-pure authenticity with a
thundering bellow that will convince everybody because it is so loud. The
thug is aware that loudness convinces sixty persons where reasoning
convinces but one.  I wouldn't be a thug, not even if--but never mind
about that, it has nothing to do with the argument, and it is not noble
in spirit besides.  If I am better than a thug, is the merit mine?  No,
it is His.  Then to Him be the praise. That is the right spirit.

They "presume" the lad severed his "presumed" connection with the
Stratford school to become apprentice to a butcher. They also "presume"
that the butcher was his father.  They don't know.  There is no written
record of it, nor any other actual evidence.  If it would have helped
their case any, they would have apprenticed him to thirty butchers, to
fifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers--all by their patented method
"presumption." If it will help their case they will do it yet; and if it
will further help it, they will "presume" that all those butchers were
his father.  And the week after, they will SAY it. Why, it is just like
being the past tense of the compound reflexive adverbial incandescent
hypodermic irregular accusative Noun of Multitude; which is father to the
expression which the grammarians call Verb.  It is like a whole ancestry,
with only one posterity.

To resume.  Next, the young Bacon took up the study of law, and mastered
that abstruse science.  From that day to the end of his life he was daily
in close contact with lawyers and judges; not as a casual onlooker in
intervals between holding horses in front of a theater, but as a
practicing lawyer--a great and successful one, a renowned one, a
Launcelot of the bar, the most formidable lance in the high brotherhood
of the legal Table Round; he lived in the law's atmosphere thenceforth,
all his years, and by sheer ability forced his way up its difficult
steeps to its supremest summit, the Lord-Chancellorship, leaving behind
him no fellow-craftsman qualified to challenge his divine right to that
majestic place.

When we read the praises bestowed by Lord Penzance and the other
illustrious experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses,
brilliances, profundities, and felicities so prodigally displayed in the
Plays, and try to fit them to the historyless Stratford stage-manager,
they sound wild, strange, incredible, ludicrous; but when we put them in
the mouth of Bacon they do not sound strange, they seem in their natural
and rightful place, they seem at home there.  Please turn back and read
them again.  Attributed to Shakespeare of Stratford they are meaningless,
they are inebriate extravagancies--intemperate admirations of the dark
side of the moon, so to speak; attributed to Bacon, they are admirations
of the golden glories of the moon's front side, the moon at the full--and
not intemperate, not overwrought, but sane and right, and justified.  "At
ever turn and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile, or
illustration, his mind ever turned FIRST to the law; he seems almost to
have THOUGHT in legal phrases; the commonest legal phrases, the commonest
of legal expressions, were ever at the end of his pen."  That could
happen to no one but a person whose TRADE was the law; it could not
happen to a dabbler in it. Veteran mariners fill their conversation with
sailor-phrases and draw all their similes from the ship and the sea and
the storm, but no mere PASSENGER ever does it, be he of Stratford or
elsewhere; or could do it with anything resembling accuracy, if he were
hardy enough to try.  Please read again what Lord Campbell and the other
great authorities have said about Bacon when they thought they were
saying it about Shakespeare of Stratford.



X

The Rest of the Equipment

The author of the Plays was equipped, beyond every other man of his
time, with wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind, grace,
and majesty of expression.  Everyone one had said it, no one doubts it.
Also, he had humor, humor in rich abundance, and always wanting to break
out.  We have no evidence of any kind that Shakespeare of Stratford
possessed any of these gifts or any of these acquirements.  The only
lines he ever wrote, so far as we know, are substantially barren of them
--barren of all of them.

Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones.

Ben Jonson says of Bacon, as orator:

His language, WHERE HE COULD SPARE AND PASS BY A JEST, was nobly
censorious.  No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily,
or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered.  No member
of his speech but consisted of his (its) own graces. . . .  The fear of
every man that heard him was lest he should make an end.

From Macaulay:

He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by his
exertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the King's heart was
set--the union of England and Scotland.  It was not difficult for such an
intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favor of such a
scheme.  He conducted the great case of the POST NATI in the Exchequer
Chamber; and the decision of the judges--a decision the legality of which
may be questioned, but the beneficial effect of which must be
acknowledged--was in a great measure attributed to his dexterous
management.

Again:

While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of law,
he still found leisure for letters and philosophy. The noble treatise on
the ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING, which at a later period was expanded into
the DE AUGMENTIS, appeared in 1605.

The WISDOM OF THE ANCIENTS, a work which, if it had proceeded from any
other writer, would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit and
learning, was printed in 1609.

In the mean time the NOVUM ORGANUM was slowly proceeding. Several
distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of that
extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest admiration of his
genius.

Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the COGITATA ET VISA, one of the
most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great oracular
volume was afterward made up, acknowledged that "in all proposals and
plots in that book, Bacon showed himself a master workman"; and that "it
could not be gainsaid but all the treatise over did abound with choice
conceits of the present state of learning, and with worthy contemplations
of the means to procure it."

In 1612 a new edition of the ESSAYS appeared, with additions surpassing
the original collection both in bulk and quality.

Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's attention from a work the most
arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mighty
powers could have achieved, "the reducing and recompiling," to use his
own phrase, "of the laws of England."

To serve the exacting and laborious offices of Attorney-General and
Solicitor-General would have satisfied the appetite of any other man for
hard work, but Bacon had to add the vast literary industries just
described, to satisfy his.  He was a born worker.

The service which he rendered to letters during the last five years of
his life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase the
regret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to use
the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, "on such study as was not worthy such a
student."

He commenced a digest of the laws of England, a History of England under
the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of National History, a
Philosophical Romance.  He made extensive and valuable additions to his
Essays.  He published the inestimable TREATISE DE AUGMENTIS SCIENTIARUM.

Did these labors of Hercules fill up his time to his contentment, and
quiet his appetite for work?  Not entirely:

The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languor
bore the mark of his mind.  THE BEST JEST-BOOK IN THE WORLD is that which
he dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a day on which
illness had rendered him incapable of serious study.

Here are some scattered remarks (from Macaulay) which throw light upon
Bacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe demonstrate--that he was
competent to write the Plays and Poems:

With great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude of
comprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other human
being.

The ESSAYS contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of character, no
peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden, or a court-masque,
could escape the notice of one whose mind was capable of taking in the
whole world of knowledge.

His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gave to
Prince Ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady; spread
it, and the armies of the powerful Sultans might repose beneath its
shade.

The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of the
mutual relations of all departments of knowledge.

In a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, Lord
Burleigh, he said, "I have taken all knowledge to be my province."

Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, he
adorned her profusely with all the richest decorations of rhetoric.

The practical faculty was powerful in Bacon; but not, like his wit, so
powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason and to
tyrannize over the whole man.

There are too many places in the Plays where this happens. Poor old
dying John of Gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name, is a
pathetic instance of it.  "We may assume" that it is Bacon's fault, but
the Stratford Shakespeare has to bear the blame.

No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly subjugated.
It stopped at the first check from good sense.

In truth, much of Bacon's life was passed in a visionary world--amid
things as strange as any that are described in the ARABIAN TALES . . .
amid buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin, fountains more
wonderful than the golden water of Parizade, conveyances more rapid than
the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more formidable than the lance of
Astolfo, remedies more efficacious than the balsam of Fierabras.  Yet in
his magnificent day-dreams there was nothing wild--nothing but what sober
reason sanctioned.

Bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the NOVUM ORGANUM. . .
.  Every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is employed only
to illustrate and decorate truth.  No book ever made so great a
revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so may prejudices,
introduced so many new opinions.

But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which,
without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science--all the
past, the present and the future, all the errors of two thousand years,
all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright hopes of
the coming age.

He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering it
portable.

His eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank in
literature.

It is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts and
each and every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally displayed
in the Plays and Poems, and in much higher and richer degree than any
other man of his time or of any previous time. He was a genius without a
mate, a prodigy not matable.  There was only one of him; the planet could
not produce two of him at one birth, nor in one age.  He could have
written anything that is in the Plays and Poems.  He could have written
this:



The cloud-cap'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.  We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Also, he could have written this, but he refrained:

Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare:
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.

When a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap'd towers, he
ought not to follow it immediately with Good friend for Iesus sake
forbeare, because he will find the transition from great poetry to poor
prose too violent for comfort.  It will give him a shock.  You never
notice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel is until you bite into a layer
of it in a pie.



XI

Am I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not write
Shakespeare's Works?  Ah, now, what do you take me for? Would I be so
soft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearly
seventy-four years?  It would grieve me to know that any one could think
so injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me.  No,
no, I am aware that when even the brightest mind in our world has been
trained up from childhood in a superstition of any kind, it will never be
possible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine sincerely,
dispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any circumstance
which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition.
I doubt if I could do it myself.  We always get at second hand our
notions about systems of government; and high tariff and low tariff; and
prohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and the
glories of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and approval of
the duel and disapproval of it; and our beliefs concerning the nature of
cats; and our ideas as to whether the murder of helpless wild animals is
base or is heroic; and our preferences in the matter of religious and
political parties; and our acceptance or rejection of the Shakespeares
and the Author Ortons and the Mrs. Eddys.  We get them all at second
hand, we reason none of them out for ourselves.  It is the way we are
made.  It is the way we are all made, and we can't help it, we can't
change it.  And whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have been
taught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and refrain from
examining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear and strong, that can
persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our devotion.  In morals,
conduct, and beliefs we take the color of our environment and
associations, and it is a color that can safely be warranted to wash.
Whenever we have been furnished with a tar baby ostensibly stuffed with
jewels, and warned that it will be dishonorable and irreverent to
disembowel it and test the jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands off it.
We submit, not reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privately
afraid we should find, upon examination that the jewels are of the sort
that are manufactured at North Adams, Mass.

I haven't any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestal this
side of the year 2209.  Disbelief in him cannot come swiftly, disbelief
in a healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never been known to
disintegrate swiftly; it is a very slow process.  It took several
thousand years to convince our fine race--including every splendid
intellect in it--that there is no such thing as a witch; it has taken
several thousand years to convince the same fine race--including every
splendid intellect in it--that there is no such person as Satan; it has
taken several centuries to remove perdition from the Protestant Church's
program of post-mortem entertainments; it has taken a weary long time to
persuade American Presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try to
bear it the best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren will
still be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comes
down from his perch.

We are The Reasoning Race.  We can't prove it by the above examples, and
we can't prove it by the miraculous "histories" built by those
Stratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of sawdust, but
there is a plenty of other things we can prove it by, if I could think of
them.  We are The Reasoning Race, and when we find a vague file of
chipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we know
by our reasoning bowers that Hercules has been along there.  I feel that
our fetish is safe for three centuries yet.  The bust, too--there in the
Stratford Church.  The precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust,
the serene bust, the emotionless bust, with the dandy mustache, and the
putty face, unseamed of care--that face which has looked passionlessly
down upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will still
look down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep, deep,
deep, subtle, subtle, subtle expression of a bladder.



XII

Irreverence

One of the most trying defects which I find in these--these--what shall
I call them? for I will not apply injurious epithets to them, the way
they do to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant to my nature
and my dignity.  The farthest I can go in that direction is to call them
by names of limited reverence--names merely descriptive, never unkind,
never offensive, never tainted by harsh feeling.  If THEY would do like
this, they would feel better in their hearts.  Very well, then--to
proceed.  One of the most trying defects which I find in these
Stratfordolaters, these Shakesperiods, these thugs, these bangalores,
these troglodytes, these herumfrodites, these blatherskites, these
buccaneers, these bandoleers, is their spirit of irreverence.  It is
detectable in every utterance of theirs when they are talking about us.
I am thankful that in me there is nothing of that spirit.  When a thing
is sacred to me it is impossible for me to be irreverent toward it.  I
cannot call to mind a single instance where I have ever been irreverent,
except towards the things which were sacred to other people.  Am I in the
right?  I think so.  But I ask no one to take my unsupported word; no,
look at the dictionary; let the dictionary decide.  Here is the
definition:

IRREVERENCE.  The quality or condition of irreverence toward God and
sacred things.

What does the Hindu say?  He says it is correct.  He says irreverence is
lack of respect for Vishnu, and Brahma, and Chrishna, and his other gods,
and for his sacred cattle, and for his temples and the things within
them.  He endorses the definition, you see; and there are 300,000,000
Hindus or their equivalents back of him.

The dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital G it could
restrict irreverence to lack of reverence for OUR Deity and our sacred
things, but that ingenious and rather sly idea miscarried: for by the
simple process of spelling HIS deities with capitals the Hindu
confiscates the definition and restricts it to his own sects, thus making
it clearly compulsory upon us to revere HIS gods and HIS sacred things,
and nobody's else.  We can't say a word, for he had our own dictionary at
his back, and its decision is final.

This law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this: 1. Whatever is sacred
to the Christian must be held in reverence by everybody else; 2.
whatever is sacred to the Hindu must be held in reverence by everybody
else; 3.  therefore, by consequence, logically, and indisputably,
whatever is sacred to ME must be held in reverence by everybody else.

Now then, what aggravates me is that these troglodytes and muscovites and
bandoleers and buccaneers are ALSO trying to crowd in and share the
benefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere their Shakespeare and
hold him sacred.  We can't have that: there's enough of us already.  If
you go on widening and spreading and inflating the privilege, it will
presently come to be conceded that each man's sacred things are the ONLY
ones, and the rest of the human race will have to be humbly reverent
toward them or suffer for it.  That can surely happen, and when it
happens, the word Irreverence will be regarded as the most meaningless,
and foolish, and self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent, and
dictatorial word in the language.  And people will say, "Whose business
is it what gods I worship and what things hold sacred?  Who has the right
to dictate to my conscience, and where did he get that right?"

We cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us.  We must save the
word from this destruction.  There is but one way to do it, and that is
to stop the spread of the privilege and strictly confine it to its
present limits--that is, to all the Christian sects, to all the Hindu
sects, and me.  We do not need any more, the stock is watered enough,
just as it is.

It would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone.  I think so
because I am the only sect that knows how to employ it gently, kindly,
charitably, dispassionately.  The other sects lack the quality of
self-restraint.  The Catholic Church says the most irreverent things
about matters which are sacred to the Protestants, and the Protestant
Church retorts in kind about the confessional and other matters which
Catholics hold sacred; then both of these irreverencers turn upon Thomas
Paine and charge HIM with irreverence.  This is all unfortunate, because
it makes it difficult for students equipped with only a low grade of
mentality to find out what Irreverence really IS.

It will surely be much better all around if the privilege of regulating
the irreverent and keeping them in order shall eventually be withdrawn
from all the sects but me.  Then there will be no more quarreling, no
more bandying of disrespectful epithets, no more heartburnings.

There will then be nothing sacred involved in this Bacon-Shakespeare
controversy except what is sacred to me.  That will simplify the whole
matter, and trouble will cease.  There will be irreverence no longer,
because I will not allow it.  The first time those criminals charge me
with irreverence for calling their Stratford myth an
Arthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Louis-the-Seventeenth-Veiled-
Prophet-of-Khorassan will be the last. Taught by the methods found
effective in extinguishing earlier offenders by the Inquisition, of holy
memory, I shall know how to quiet them.



XIII

Isn't it odd, when you think of it, that you may list all the celebrated
Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of modern times, clear back to the
first Tudors--a list containing five hundred names, shall we say?--and
you can go to the histories, biographies, and cyclopedias and learn the
particulars of the lives of every one of them.  Every one of them except
one--the most famous, the most renowned--by far the most illustrious of
them all--Shakespeare!  You can get the details of the lives of all the
celebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians,
comedians, singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets, dramatists,
historians, biographers, editors, inventors, reformers, statesmen,
generals, admirals, discoverers, prize-fighters, murderers, pirates,
conspirators, horse-jockeys, bunco-steerers, misers, swindlers,
explorers, adventurers by land and sea, bankers, financiers, astronomers,
naturalists, claimants, impostors, chemists, biologists, geologists,
philologists, college presidents and professors, architects, engineers,
painters, sculptors, politicians, agitators, rebels, revolutionists,
patriots, demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers, burglars,
highwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons--you can get the
life-histories of all of them but ONE. Just ONE--the most extraordinary
and the most celebrated of them all--Shakespeare!

You may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished by the
rest of Christendom in the past four centuries, and you can find out the
life-histories of all those people, too. You will then have listed
fifteen hundred celebrities, and you can trace the authentic
life-histories of the whole of them. Save one--far and away the most
colossal prodigy of the entire accumulation--Shakespeare!  About him you
can find out NOTHING. Nothing of even the slightest importance.  Nothing
worth the trouble of stowing away in your memory.  Nothing that even
remotely indicates that he was ever anything more than a distinctly
commonplace person--a manager, an actor of inferior grade, a small trader
in a small village that did not regard him as a person of any
consequence, and had forgotten all about him before he was fairly cold in
his grave.  We can go to the records and find out the life-history of
every renowned RACE-HORSE of modern times--but not Shakespeare's!  There
are many reasons why, and they have been furnished in cart-loads (of
guess and conjecture) by those troglodytes; but there is one that is
worth all the rest of the reasons put together, and is abundantly
sufficient all by itself--HE HADN'T ANY HISTORY TO RECORD.  There is no
way of getting around that deadly fact.  And no sane way has yet been
discovered of getting around its formidable significance.

Its quite plain significance--to any but those thugs (I do not use the
term unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no prominence while he lived, and
none until he had been dead two or three generations.  The Plays enjoyed
high fame from the beginning; and if he wrote them it seems a pity the
world did not find it out. He ought to have explained that he was the
author, and not merely a NOM DE PLUME for another man to hide behind.  If
he had been less intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more
solicitous about his Works, it would have been better for his good name,
and a kindness to us.  The bones were not important. They will moulder
away, they will turn to dust, but the Works will endure until the last
sun goes down.



Mark Twain.

P.S.  MARCH 25.  About two months ago I was illuminating this
Autobiography with some notions of mine concerning the Bacon-Shakespeare
controversy, and I then took occasion to air the opinion that the
Stratford Shakespeare was a person of no public consequence or celebrity
during his lifetime, but was utterly obscure and unimportant.  And not
only in great London, but also in the little village where he was born,
where he lived a quarter of a century, and where he died and was buried.
I argued that if he had been a person of any note at all, aged villagers
would have had much to tell about him many and many a year after his
death, instead of being unable to furnish inquirers a single fact
connected with him.  I believed, and I still believe, that if he had been
famous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as mine has lasted in my
native village out in Missouri.  It is a good argument, a prodigiously
strong one, and most formidable one for even the most gifted and
ingenious and plausible Stratfordolator to get around or explain away.
Today a Hannibal COURIER-POST of recent date has reached me, with an
article in it which reinforces my contention that a really celebrated
person cannot be forgotten in his village in the short space of sixty
years.  I will make an extract from it:

Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but ingratitude
is not one of them, or reverence for the great men she has produced, and
as the years go by her greatest son, Mark Twain, or S. L. Clemens as a
few of the unlettered call him, grows in the estimation and regard of the
residents of the town he made famous and the town that made him famous.
His name is associated with every old building that is torn down to make
way for the modern structures demanded by a rapidly growing city, and
with every hill or cave over or through which he might by any possibility
have roamed, while the many points of interest which he wove into his
stories, such as Holiday Hill, Jackson's Island, or Mark Twain Cave, are
now monuments to his genius.  Hannibal is glad of any opportunity to do
him honor as he had honored her.

So it has happened that the "old timers" who went to school with Mark or
were with him on some of his usual escapades have been honored with large
audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent mood and condescended to
tell of their intimacy with the ordinary boy who came to be a very
extraordinary humorist and whose every boyish act is now seen to have
been indicative of what was to come.  Like Aunt Becky and Mrs. Clemens,
they can now see that Mark was hardly appreciated when he lived here and
that the things he did as a boy and was whipped for doing were not all
bad, after all.  So they have been in no hesitancy about drawing out the
bad things he did as well as the good in their efforts to get a "Mark
Twain" story, all incidents being viewed in the light of his present
fame, until the volume of "Twainiana" is already considerable and growing
in proportion as the "old timers" drop away and the stories are retold
second and third hand by their descendants.  With some seventy-three
years and living in a villa instead of a house, he is a fair target, and
let him incorporate, copyright, or patent himself as he will, there are
some of his "works" that will go swooping up Hannibal chimneys as long as
graybeards gather about the fires and begin with, "I've heard father
tell," or possibly, "Once when I." The Mrs. Clemens referred to is my
mother--WAS my mother.

And here is another extract from a Hannibal paper, of date twenty days
ago:

Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of William Dickason, 408 Rock
Street, at 2.30 o'clock yesterday afternoon, aged 72 years.  The deceased
was a sister of "Huckleberry Finn," one of the famous characters in Mark
Twain's TOM SAWYER.  She had been a member of the Dickason family--the
housekeeper--for nearly forty-five years, and was a highly respected
lady.  For the past eight years she had been an invalid, but was as well
cared for by Mr. Dickason and his family as if she had been a near
relative. She was a member of the Park Methodist Church and a Christian
woman.

I remember her well.  I have a picture of her in my mind which was
graven there, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago.  She was
at that time nine years old, and I was about eleven.  I remember where
she stood, and how she looked; and I can still see her bare feet, her
bare head, her brown face, and her short tow-linen frock.  She was
crying.  What it was about I have long ago forgotten.  But it was the
tears that preserved the picture for me, no doubt.  She was a good child,
I can say that for her.  She knew me nearly seventy years ago.  Did she
forget me, in the course of time?  I think not.  If she had lived in
Stratford in Shakespeare's time, would she have forgotten him? Yes.  For
he was never famous during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in
Stratford, and there wouldn't be any occasion to remember him after he
had been dead a week.

"Injun Joe," "Jimmy Finn," and "General Gaines" were prominent and very
intemperate ne'er-do-weels in Hannibal two generations ago.  Plenty of
grayheads there remember them to this day, and can tell you about them.
Isn't it curious that two "town drunkards" and one half-breed loafer
should leave behind them, in a remote Missourian village, a fame a
hundred times greater and several hundred times more particularized in
the matter of definite facts than Shakespeare left behind him in the
village where he had lived the half of his lifetime?


End of Project Gutenberg's What Is Man?, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)






THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

by Mark Twain



Contents:
     The Mysterious Stranger
     A Fable
     Hunting The Deceitful Turkey
     The Mcwilliamses And The Burglar Alarm




THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER


Chapter 1

It was in 1590--winter.  Austria was far away from the world, and asleep;
it was still the Middle Ages in Austria, and promised to remain so
forever.  Some even set it away back centuries upon centuries and said
that by the mental and spiritual clock it was still the Age of Belief in
Austria.  But they meant it as a compliment, not a slur, and it was so
taken, and we were all proud of it.  I remember it well, although I was
only a boy; and I remember, too, the pleasure it gave me.

Yes, Austria was far from the world, and asleep, and our village was in
the middle of that sleep, being in the middle of Austria.  It drowsed in
peace in the deep privacy of a hilly and woodsy solitude where news from
the world hardly ever came to disturb its dreams, and was infinitely
content.  At its front flowed the tranquil river, its surface painted
with cloud-forms and the reflections of drifting arks and stone-boats;
behind it rose the woody steeps to the base of the lofty precipice; from
the top of the precipice frowned a vast castle, its long stretch of
towers and bastions mailed in vines; beyond the river, a league to the
left, was a tumbled expanse of forest-clothed hills cloven by winding
gorges where the sun never penetrated; and to the right a precipice
overlooked the river, and between it and the hills just spoken of lay a
far-reaching plain dotted with little homesteads nested among orchards
and shade trees.

The whole region for leagues around was the hereditary property of a
prince, whose servants kept the castle always in perfect condition for
occupancy, but neither he nor his family came there oftener than once in
five years.  When they came it was as if the lord of the world had
arrived, and had brought all the glories of its kingdoms along; and when
they went they left a calm behind which was like the deep sleep which
follows an orgy.

Eseldorf was a paradise for us boys.  We were not overmuch pestered with
schooling.  Mainly we were trained to be good Christians; to revere the
Virgin, the Church, and the saints above everything.  Beyond these
matters we were not required to know much; and, in fact, not allowed to.
Knowledge was not good for the common people, and could make them
discontented with the lot which God had appointed for them, and God would
not endure discontentment with His plans.  We had two priests.  One of
them, Father Adolf, was a very zealous and strenuous priest, much
considered.

There may have been better priests, in some ways, than Father Adolf, but
there was never one in our commune who was held in more solemn and awful
respect.  This was because he had absolutely no fear of the Devil.  He
was the only Christian I have ever known of whom that could be truly
said.  People stood in deep dread of him on that account; for they
thought that there must be something supernatural about him, else he
could not be so bold and so confident.  All men speak in bitter
disapproval of the Devil, but they do it reverently, not flippantly; but
Father Adolf's way was very different; he called him by every name he
could lay his tongue to, and it made everyone shudder that heard him; and
often he would even speak of him scornfully and scoffingly; then the
people crossed themselves and went quickly out of his presence, fearing
that something fearful might happen.

Father Adolf had actually met Satan face to face more than once, and
defied him.  This was known to be so.  Father Adolf said it himself.  He
never made any secret of it, but spoke it right out.  And that he was
speaking true there was proof in at least one instance, for on that
occasion he quarreled with the enemy, and intrepidly threw his bottle at
him; and there, upon the wall of his study, was the ruddy splotch where
it struck and broke.

But it was Father Peter, the other priest, that we all loved best and
were sorriest for.  Some people charged him with talking around in
conversation that God was all goodness and would find a way to save all
his poor human children.  It was a horrible thing to say, but there was
never any absolute proof that Father Peter said it; and it was out of
character for him to say it, too, for he was always good and gentle and
truthful.  He wasn't charged with saying it in the pulpit, where all the
congregation could hear and testify, but only outside, in talk; and it is
easy for enemies to manufacture that.  Father Peter had an enemy and a
very powerful one, the astrologer who lived in a tumbled old tower up the
valley, and put in his nights studying the stars.  Every one knew he
could foretell wars and famines, though that was not so hard, for there
was always a war, and generally a famine somewhere.  But he could also
read any man's life through the stars in a big book he had, and find lost
property, and every one in the village except Father Peter stood in awe
of him.  Even Father Adolf, who had defied the Devil, had a wholesome
respect for the astrologer when he came through our village wearing his
tall, pointed hat and his long, flowing robe with stars on it, carrying
his big book, and a staff which was known to have magic power.  The
bishop himself sometimes listened to the astrologer, it was said, for,
besides studying the stars and prophesying, the astrologer made a great
show of piety, which would impress the bishop, of course.

But Father Peter took no stock in the astrologer.  He denounced him
openly as a charlatan--a fraud with no valuable knowledge of any kind, or
powers beyond those of an ordinary and rather inferior human being, which
naturally made the astrologer hate Father Peter and wish to ruin him.  It
was the astrologer, as we all believed, who originated the story about
Father Peter's shocking remark and carried it to the bishop.  It was said
that Father Peter had made the remark to his niece, Marget, though Marget
denied it and implored the bishop to believe her and spare her old uncle
from poverty and disgrace.  But the bishop wouldn't listen.  He suspended
Father Peter indefinitely, though he wouldn't go so far as to
excommunicate him on the evidence of only one witness; and now Father
Peter had been out a couple of years, and our other priest, Father Adolf,
had his flock.

Those had been hard years for the old priest and Marget.  They had been
favorites, but of course that changed when they came under the shadow of
the bishop's frown.  Many of their friends fell away entirely, and the
rest became cool and distant.  Marget was a lovely girl of eighteen when
the trouble came, and she had the best head in the village, and the most
in it.  She taught the harp, and earned all her clothes and pocket money
by her own industry.  But her scholars fell off one by one now; she was
forgotten when there were dances and parties among the youth of the
village; the young fellows stopped coming to the house, all except
Wilhelm Meidling--and he could have been spared; she and her uncle were
sad and forlorn in their neglect and disgrace, and the sunshine was gone
out of their lives.  Matters went worse and worse, all through the two
years.  Clothes were wearing out, bread was harder and harder to get.
And now, at last, the very end was come.  Solomon Isaacs had lent all the
money he was willing to put on the house, and gave notice that to-morrow
he would foreclose.




Chapter 2

Three of us boys were always together, and had been so from the cradle,
being fond of one another from the beginning, and this affection deepened
as the years went on--Nikolaus Bauman, son of the principal judge of the
local court; Seppi Wohlmeyer, son of the keeper of the principal inn, the
"Golden Stag," which had a nice garden, with shade trees reaching down to
the riverside, and pleasure boats for hire; and I was the third--Theodor
Fischer, son of the church organist, who was also leader of the village
musicians, teacher of the violin, composer, tax-collector of the commune,
sexton, and in other ways a useful citizen, and respected by all.  We
knew the hills and the woods as well as the birds knew them; for we were
always roaming them when we had leisure--at least, when we were not
swimming or boating or fishing, or playing on the ice or sliding down
hill.

And we had the run of the castle park, and very few had that.  It was
because we were pets of the oldest servingman in the castle--Felix
Brandt; and often we went there, nights, to hear him talk about old times
and strange things, and to smoke with him (he taught us that) and to
drink coffee; for he had served in the wars, and was at the siege of
Vienna; and there, when the Turks were defeated and driven away, among
the captured things were bags of coffee, and the Turkish prisoners
explained the character of it and how to make a pleasant drink out of it,
and now he always kept coffee by him, to drink himself and also to
astonish the ignorant with.  When it stormed he kept us all night; and
while it thundered and lightened outside he told us about ghosts and
horrors of every kind, and of battles and murders and mutilations, and
such things, and made it pleasant and cozy inside; and he told these
things from his own experience largely.  He had seen many ghosts in his
time, and witches and enchanters, and once he was lost in a fierce storm
at midnight in the mountains, and by the glare of the lightning had seen
the Wild Huntsman rage on the blast with his specter dogs chasing after
him through the driving cloud-rack.  Also he had seen an incubus once,
and several times he had seen the great bat that sucks the blood from the
necks of people while they are asleep, fanning them softly with its wings
and so keeping them drowsy till they die.

He encouraged us not to fear supernatural things, such as ghosts, and
said they did no harm, but only wandered about because they were lonely
and distressed and wanted kindly notice and compassion; and in time we
learned not to be afraid, and even went down with him in the night to the
haunted chamber in the dungeons of the castle.  The ghost appeared only
once, and it went by very dim to the sight and floated noiseless through
the air, and then disappeared; and we scarcely trembled, he had taught us
so well.  He said it came up sometimes in the night and woke him by
passing its clammy hand over his face, but it did him no hurt; it only
wanted sympathy and notice.  But the strangest thing was that he had seen
angels--actual angels out of heaven--and had talked with them.  They had
no wings, and wore clothes, and talked and looked and acted just like any
natural person, and you would never know them for angels except for the
wonderful things they did which a mortal could not do, and the way they
suddenly disappeared while you were talking with them, which was also a
thing which no mortal could do.  And he said they were pleasant and
cheerful, not gloomy and melancholy, like ghosts.

It was after that kind of a talk one May night that we got up next
morning and had a good breakfast with him and then went down and crossed
the bridge and went away up into the hills on the left to a woody
hill-top which was a favorite place of ours, and there we stretched out
on the grass in the shade to rest and smoke and talk over these strange
things, for they were in our minds yet, and impressing us.  But we
couldn't smoke, because we had been heedless and left our flint and steel
behind.

Soon there came a youth strolling toward us through the trees, and he sat
down and began to talk in a friendly way, just as if he knew us.  But we
did not answer him, for he was a stranger and we were not used to
strangers and were shy of them.  He had new and good clothes on, and was
handsome and had a winning face and a pleasant voice, and was easy and
graceful and unembarrassed, not slouchy and awkward and diffident, like
other boys.  We wanted to be friendly with him, but didn't know how to
begin.  Then I thought of the pipe, and wondered if it would be taken as
kindly meant if I offered it to him.  But I remembered that we had no
fire, so I was sorry and disappointed.  But he looked up bright and
pleased, and said:

"Fire?  Oh, that is easy; I will furnish it."

I was so astonished I couldn't speak; for I had not said anything.  He
took the pipe and blew his breath on it, and the tobacco glowed red, and
spirals of blue smoke rose up.  We jumped up and were going to run, for
that was natural; and we did run a few steps, although he was yearningly
pleading for us to stay, and giving us his word that he would not do us
any harm, but only wanted to be friends with us and have company.  So we
stopped and stood, and wanted to go back, being full of curiosity and
wonder, but afraid to venture.  He went on coaxing, in his soft,
persuasive way; and when we saw that the pipe did not blow up and nothing
happened, our confidence returned by little and little, and presently our
curiosity got to be stronger than our fear, and we ventured back--but
slowly, and ready to fly at any alarm.

He was bent on putting us at ease, and he had the right art; one could
not remain doubtful and timorous where a person was so earnest and simple
and gentle, and talked so alluringly as he did; no, he won us over, and
it was not long before we were content and comfortable and chatty, and
glad we had found this new friend.  When the feeling of constraint was
all gone we asked him how he had learned to do that strange thing, and he
said he hadn't learned it at all; it came natural to him--like other
things--other curious things.

"What ones?"

"Oh, a number; I don't know how many."

"Will you let us see you do them?"

"Do--please!" the others said.

"You won't run away again?"

"No--indeed we won't.  Please do.  Won't you?"

"Yes, with pleasure; but you mustn't forget your promise, you know."

We said we wouldn't, and he went to a puddle and came back with water in
a cup which he had made out of a leaf, and blew upon it and threw it out,
and it was a lump of ice the shape of the cup.  We were astonished and
charmed, but not afraid any more; we were very glad to be there, and
asked him to go on and do some more things.  And he did.  He said he
would give us any kind of fruit we liked, whether it was in season or
not.  We all spoke at once;

"Orange!"

"Apple!"

"Grapes!"

"They are in your pockets," he said, and it was true.  And they were of
the best, too, and we ate them and wished we had more, though none of us
said so.

"You will find them where those came from," he said, "and everything else
your appetites call for; and you need not name the thing you wish; as
long as I am with you, you have only to wish and find."

And he said true.  There was never anything so wonderful and so
interesting.  Bread, cakes, sweets, nuts--whatever one wanted, it was
there.  He ate nothing himself, but sat and chatted, and did one curious
thing after another to amuse us.  He made a tiny toy squirrel out of
clay, and it ran up a tree and sat on a limb overhead and barked down at
us.  Then he made a dog that was not much larger than a mouse, and it
treed the squirrel and danced about the tree, excited and barking, and
was as alive as any dog could be.  It frightened the squirrel from tree
to tree and followed it up until both were out of sight in the forest.
He made birds out of clay and set them free, and they flew away, singing.

At last I made bold to ask him to tell us who he was.

"An angel," he said, quite simply, and set another bird free and clapped
his hands and made it fly away.

A kind of awe fell upon us when we heard him say that, and we were afraid
again; but he said we need not be troubled, there was no occasion for us
to be afraid of an angel, and he liked us, anyway.  He went on chatting
as simply and unaffectedly as ever; and while he talked he made a crowd
of little men and women the size of your finger, and they went diligently
to work and cleared and leveled off a space a couple of yards square in
the grass and began to build a cunning little castle in it, the women
mixing the mortar and carrying it up the scaffoldings in pails on their
heads, just as our work-women have always done, and the men laying the
courses of masonry--five hundred of these toy people swarming briskly
about and working diligently and wiping the sweat off their faces as
natural as life.  In the absorbing interest of watching those five
hundred little people make the castle grow step by step and course by
course, and take shape and symmetry, that feeling and awe soon passed
away and we were quite comfortable and at home again.  We asked if we
might make some people, and he said yes, and told Seppi to make some
cannon for the walls, and told Nikolaus to make some halberdiers, with
breastplates and greaves and helmets, and I was to make some cavalry,
with horses, and in allotting these tasks he called us by our names, but
did not say how he knew them.  Then Seppi asked him what his own name
was, and he said, tranquilly, "Satan," and held out a chip and caught a
little woman on it who was falling from the scaffolding and put her back
where she belonged, and said, "She is an idiot to step backward like that
and not notice what she is about."

It caught us suddenly, that name did, and our work dropped out of our
hands and broke to pieces--a cannon, a halberdier, and a horse.  Satan
laughed, and asked what was the matter.  I said, "Nothing, only it seemed
a strange name for an angel." He asked why.

"Because it's--it's--well, it's his name, you know."

"Yes--he is my uncle."

He said it placidly, but it took our breath for a moment and made our
hearts beat.  He did not seem to notice that, but mended our halberdiers
and things with a touch, handing them to us finished, and said, "Don't
you remember?--he was an angel himself, once."

"Yes--it's true," said Seppi; "I didn't think of that."

"Before the Fall he was blameless."

"Yes," said Nikolaus, "he was without sin."

"It is a good family--ours," said Satan; "there is not a better.  He is
the only member of it that has ever sinned."

I should not be able to make any one understand how exciting it all was.
You know that kind of quiver that trembles around through you when you
are seeing something so strange and enchanting and wonderful that it is
just a fearful joy to be alive and look at it; and you know how you gaze,
and your lips turn dry and your breath comes short, but you wouldn't be
anywhere but there, not for the world.  I was bursting to ask one
question--I had it on my tongue's end and could hardly hold it back--but
I was ashamed to ask it; it might be a rudeness.  Satan set an ox down
that he had been making, and smiled up at me and said:

"It wouldn't be a rudeness, and I should forgive it if it was.  Have I
seen him?  Millions of times.  From the time that I was a little child a
thousand years old I was his second favorite among the nursery angels of
our blood and lineage--to use a human phrase--yes, from that time until
the Fall, eight thousand years, measured as you count time."

"Eight--thousand!"

"Yes." He turned to Seppi, and went on as if answering something that was
in Seppi's mind: "Why, naturally I look like a boy, for that is what I
am.  With us what you call time is a spacious thing; it takes a long
stretch of it to grow an angel to full age."  There was a question in my
mind, and he turned to me and answered it, "I am sixteen thousand years
old--counting as you count."  Then he turned to Nikolaus and said: "No,
the Fall did not affect me nor the rest of the relationship.  It was only
he that I was named for who ate of the fruit of the tree and then
beguiled the man and the woman with it.  We others are still ignorant of
sin; we are not able to commit it; we are without blemish, and shall
abide in that estate always.  We--" Two of the little workmen were
quarreling, and in buzzing little bumblebee voices they were cursing and
swearing at each other; now came blows and blood; then they locked
themselves together in a life-and-death struggle.  Satan reached out his
hand and crushed the life out of them with his fingers, threw them away,
wiped the red from his fingers on his handkerchief, and went on talking
where he had left off: "We cannot do wrong; neither have we any
disposition to do it, for we do not know what it is."

It seemed a strange speech, in the circumstances, but we barely noticed
that, we were so shocked and grieved at the wanton murder he had
committed--for murder it was, that was its true name, and it was without
palliation or excuse, for the men had not wronged him in any way.  It
made us miserable, for we loved him, and had thought him so noble and so
beautiful and gracious, and had honestly believed he was an angel; and to
have him do this cruel thing--ah, it lowered him so, and we had had such
pride in him.  He went right on talking, just as if nothing had happened,
telling about his travels, and the interesting things he had seen in the
big worlds of our solar systems and of other solar systems far away in
the remotenesses of space, and about the customs of the immortals that
inhabit them, somehow fascinating us, enchanting us, charming us in spite
of the pitiful scene that was now under our eyes, for the wives of the
little dead men had found the crushed and shapeless bodies and were
crying over them, and sobbing and lamenting, and a priest was kneeling
there with his hands crossed upon his breast, praying; and crowds and
crowds of pitying friends were massed about them, reverently uncovered,
with their bare heads bowed, and many with the tears running down--a
scene which Satan paid no attention to until the small noise of the
weeping and praying began to annoy him, then he reached out and took the
heavy board seat out of our swing and brought it down and mashed all
those people into the earth just as if they had been flies, and went on
talking just the same.

An angel, and kill a priest!  An angel who did not know how to do wrong,
and yet destroys in cold blood hundreds of helpless poor men and women
who had never done him any harm!  It made us sick to see that awful deed,
and to think that none of those poor creatures was prepared except the
priest, for none of them had ever heard a mass or seen a church.  And we
were witnesses; we had seen these murders done and it was our duty to
tell, and let the law take its course.

But he went on talking right along, and worked his enchantments upon us
again with that fatal music of his voice.  He made us forget everything;
we could only listen to him, and love him, and be his slaves, to do with
us as he would.  He made us drunk with the joy of being with him, and of
looking into the heaven of his eyes, and of feeling the ecstasy that
thrilled along our veins from the touch of his hand.




Chapter 3

The Stranger had seen everything, he had been everywhere, he knew
everything, and he forgot nothing.  What another must study, he learned
at a glance; there were no difficulties for him.  And he made things live
before you when he told about them.  He saw the world made; he saw Adam
created; he saw Samson surge against the pillars and bring the temple
down in ruins about him; he saw Caesar's death; he told of the daily life
in heaven; he had seen the damned writhing in the red waves of hell; and
he made us see all these things, and it was as if we were on the spot and
looking at them with our own eyes.  And we felt them, too, but there was
no sign that they were anything to him beyond mere entertainments.  Those
visions of hell, those poor babes and women and girls and lads and men
shrieking and supplicating in anguish--why, we could hardly bear it, but
he was as bland about it as if it had been so many imitation rats in an
artificial fire.

And always when he was talking about men and women here on the earth and
their doings--even their grandest and sublimest--we were secretly
ashamed, for his manner showed that to him they and their doings were of
paltry poor consequence; often you would think he was talking about
flies, if you didn't know.  Once he even said, in so many words, that our
people down here were quite interesting to him, notwithstanding they were
so dull and ignorant and trivial and conceited, and so diseased and
rickety, and such a shabby, poor, worthless lot all around.  He said it
in a quite matter-of-course way and without bitterness, just as a person
might talk about bricks or manure or any other thing that was of no
consequence and hadn't feelings.  I could see he meant no offense, but in
my thoughts I set it down as not very good manners.

"Manners!" he said.  "Why, it is merely the truth, and truth is good
manners; manners are a fiction.  The castle is done.  Do you like it?"

Any one would have been obliged to like it.  It was lovely to look at, it
was so shapely and fine, and so cunningly perfect in all its particulars,
even to the little flags waving from the turrets.  Satan said we must put
the artillery in place now, and station the halberdiers and display the
cavalry.  Our men and horses were a spectacle to see, they were so little
like what they were intended for; for, of course, we had no art in making
such things.  Satan said they were the worst he had seen; and when he
touched them and made them alive, it was just ridiculous the way they
acted, on account of their legs not being of uniform lengths.  They
reeled and sprawled around as if they were drunk, and endangered
everybody's lives around them, and finally fell over and lay helpless and
kicking.  It made us all laugh, though it was a shameful thing to see.
The guns were charged with dirt, to fire a salute, but they were so
crooked and so badly made that they all burst when they went off, and
killed some of the gunners and crippled the others.  Satan said we would
have a storm now, and an earthquake, if we liked, but we must stand off a
piece, out of danger.  We wanted to call the people away, too, but he
said never mind them; they were of no consequence, and we could make
more, some time or other, if we needed them.

A small storm-cloud began to settle down black over the castle, and the
miniature lightning and thunder began to play, and the ground to quiver,
and the wind to pipe and wheeze, and the rain to fall, and all the people
flocked into the castle for shelter.  The cloud settled down blacker and
blacker, and one could see the castle only dimly through it; the
lightning blazed out flash upon flash and pierced the castle and set it
on fire, and the flames shone out red and fierce through the cloud, and
the people came flying out, shrieking, but Satan brushed them back,
paying no attention to our begging and crying and imploring; and in the
midst of the howling of the wind and volleying of the thunder the
magazine blew up, the earthquake rent the ground wide, and the castle's
wreck and ruin tumbled into the chasm, which swallowed it from sight, and
closed upon it, with all that innocent life, not one of the five hundred
poor creatures escaping.  Our hearts were broken; we could not keep from
crying.

"Don't cry," Satan said; "they were of no value."

"But they are gone to hell!"

"Oh, it is no matter; we can make plenty more."

It was of no use to try to move him; evidently he was wholly without
feeling, and could not understand.  He was full of bubbling spirits, and
as gay as if this were a wedding instead of a fiendish massacre.  And he
was bent on making us feel as he did, and of course his magic
accomplished his desire.  It was no trouble to him; he did whatever he
pleased with us.  In a little while we were dancing on that grave, and he
was playing to us on a strange, sweet instrument which he took out of his
pocket; and the music--but there is no music like that, unless perhaps in
heaven, and that was where he brought it from, he said.  It made one mad,
for pleasure; and we could not take our eyes from him, and the looks that
went out of our eyes came from our hearts, and their dumb speech was
worship.  He brought the dance from heaven, too, and the bliss of
paradise was in it.

Presently he said he must go away on an errand.  But we could not bear
the thought of it, and clung to him, and pleaded with him to stay; and
that pleased him, and he said so, and said he would not go yet, but would
wait a little while and we would sit down and talk a few minutes longer;
and he told us Satan was only his real name, and he was to be known by it
to us alone, but he had chosen another one to be called by in the
presence of others; just a common one, such as people have--Philip Traum.

It sounded so odd and mean for such a being!  But it was his decision,
and we said nothing; his decision was sufficient.

We had seen wonders this day; and my thoughts began to run on the
pleasure it would be to tell them when I got home, but he noticed those
thoughts, and said:

"No, all these matters are a secret among us four.  I do not mind your
trying to tell them, if you like, but I will protect your tongues, and
nothing of the secret will escape from them."

It was a disappointment, but it couldn't be helped, and it cost us a sigh
or two.  We talked pleasantly along, and he was always reading our
thoughts and responding to them, and it seemed to me that this was the
most wonderful of all the things he did, but he interrupted my musings
and said:

"No, it would be wonderful for you, but it is not wonderful for me.  I am
not limited like you.  I am not subject to human conditions.  I can
measure and understand your human weaknesses, for I have studied them;
but I have none of them.  My flesh is not real, although it would seem
firm to your touch; my clothes are not real; I am a spirit.  Father Peter
is coming."  We looked around, but did not see any one.  "He is not in
sight yet, but you will see him presently."

"Do you know him, Satan?"

"No."

"Won't you talk with him when he comes?  He is not ignorant and dull,
like us, and he would so like to talk with you.  Will you?"

"Another time, yes, but not now.  I must go on my errand after a little.
There he is now; you can see him.  Sit still, and don't say anything."

We looked up and saw Father Peter approaching through the chestnuts.  We
three were sitting together in the grass, and Satan sat in front of us in
the path.  Father Peter came slowly along with his head down, thinking,
and stopped within a couple of yards of us and took off his hat and got
out his silk handkerchief, and stood there mopping his face and looking
as if he were going to speak to us, but he didn't.  Presently he
muttered, "I can't think what brought me here; it seems as if I were in
my study a minute ago--but I suppose I have been dreaming along for an
hour and have come all this stretch without noticing; for I am not myself
in these troubled days."  Then he went mumbling along to himself and
walked straight through Satan, just as if nothing were there.  It made us
catch our breath to see it.  We had the impulse to cry out, the way you
nearly always do when a startling thing happens, but something
mysteriously restrained us and we remained quiet, only breathing fast.
Then the trees hid Father Peter after a little, and Satan said:

"It is as I told you--I am only a spirit."

"Yes, one perceives it now," said Nikolaus, "but we are not spirits.  It
is plain he did not see you, but were we invisible, too?  He looked at
us, but he didn't seem to see us."

"No, none of us was visible to him, for I wished it so."

It seemed almost too good to be true, that we were actually seeing these
romantic and wonderful things, and that it was not a dream.  And there he
sat, looking just like anybody--so natural and simple and charming, and
chatting along again the same as ever, and--well, words cannot make you
understand what we felt.  It was an ecstasy; and an ecstasy is a thing
that will not go into words; it feels like music, and one cannot tell
about music so that another person can get the feeling of it.  He was
back in the old ages once more now, and making them live before us.  He
had seen so much, so much!  It was just a wonder to look at him and try
to think how it must seem to have such experience behind one.

But it made you seem sorrowfully trivial, and the creature of a day, and
such a short and paltry day, too.  And he didn't say anything to raise up
your drooping pride--no, not a word.  He always spoke of men in the same
old indifferent way--just as one speaks of bricks and manure-piles and
such things; you could see that they were of no consequence to him, one
way or the other.  He didn't mean to hurt us, you could see that; just as
we don't mean to insult a brick when we disparage it; a brick's emotions
are nothing to us; it never occurs to us to think whether it has any or
not.

Once when he was bunching the most illustrious kings and conquerors and
poets and prophets and pirates and beggars together--just a brick-pile--I
was shamed into putting in a word for man, and asked him why he made so
much difference between men and himself.  He had to struggle with that a
moment; he didn't seem to understand how I could ask such a strange
question.  Then he said:

"The difference between man and me?  The difference between a mortal and
an immortal? between a cloud and a spirit?" He picked up a wood-louse
that was creeping along a piece of bark: "What is the difference between
Caesar and this?"

I said, "One cannot compare things which by their nature and by the
interval between them are not comparable."

"You have answered your own question," he said.  "I will expand it.  Man
is made of dirt--I saw him made.  I am not made of dirt.  Man is a museum
of diseases, a home of impurities; he comes to-day and is gone to-morrow;
he begins as dirt and departs as stench; I am of the aristocracy of the
Imperishables.  And man has the Moral Sense.  You understand?  He has the
Moral Sense.  That would seem to be difference enough between us, all by
itself."

He stopped there, as if that settled the matter.  I was sorry, for at
that time I had but a dim idea of what the Moral Sense was.  I merely
knew that we were proud of having it, and when he talked like that about
it, it wounded me, and I felt as a girl feels who thinks her dearest
finery is being admired and then overhears strangers making fun of it.
For a while we were all silent, and I, for one, was depressed.  Then
Satan began to chat again, and soon he was sparkling along in such a
cheerful and vivacious vein that my spirits rose once more.  He told some
very cunning things that put us in a gale of laughter; and when he was
telling about the time that Samson tied the torches to the foxes' tails
and set them loose in the Philistines' corn, and Samson sitting on the
fence slapping his thighs and laughing, with the tears running down his
cheeks, and lost his balance and fell off the fence, the memory of that
picture got him to laughing, too, and we did have a most lovely and jolly
time.  By and by he said:

"I am going on my errand now."

"Don't!" we all said.  "Don't go; stay with us.  You won't come back."

"Yes, I will; I give you my word."

"When?  To-night?  Say when."

"It won't be long.  You will see."

"We like you."

"And I you.  And as a proof of it I will show you something fine to see.
Usually when I go I merely vanish; but now I will dissolve myself and let
you see me do it."

He stood up, and it was quickly finished.  He thinned away and thinned
away until he was a soap-bubble, except that he kept his shape.  You
could see the bushes through him as clearly as you see things through a
soap-bubble, and all over him played and flashed the delicate iridescent
colors of the bubble, and along with them was that thing shaped like a
window-sash which you always see on the globe of the bubble.  You have
seen a bubble strike the carpet and lightly bound along two or three
times before it bursts.  He did that.  He sprang--touched the grass
--bounded--floated along--touched again--and so on, and presently
exploded--puff! and in his place was vacancy.

It was a strange and beautiful thing to see.  We did not say anything,
but sat wondering and dreaming and blinking; and finally Seppi roused up
and said, mournfully sighing:

"I suppose none of it has happened."

Nikolaus sighed and said about the same.

I was miserable to hear them say it, for it was the same cold fear that
was in my own mind.  Then we saw poor old Father Peter wandering along
back, with his head bent down, searching the ground.  When he was pretty
close to us he looked up and saw us, and said, "How long have you been
here, boys?"

"A little while, Father."

"Then it is since I came by, and maybe you can help me.  Did you come up
by the path?"

"Yes, Father."

"That is good.  I came the same way.  I have lost my wallet.  There
wasn't much in it, but a very little is much to me, for it was all I had.
I suppose you haven't seen anything of it?"

"No, Father, but we will help you hunt."

"It is what I was going to ask you.  Why, here it is!"

We hadn't noticed it; yet there it lay, right where Satan stood when he
began to melt--if he did melt and it wasn't a delusion.  Father Peter
picked it up and looked very much surprised.

"It is mine," he said, "but not the contents.  This is fat; mine was
flat; mine was light; this is heavy."  He opened it; it was stuffed as
full as it could hold with gold coins.  He let us gaze our fill; and of
course we did gaze, for we had never seen so much money at one time
before.  All our mouths came open to say "Satan did it!" but nothing came
out.  There it was, you see--we couldn't tell what Satan didn't want
told; he had said so himself.

"Boys, did you do this?"

It made us laugh.  And it made him laugh, too, as soon as he thought what
a foolish question it was.

"Who has been here?"

Our mouths came open to answer, but stood so for a moment, because we
couldn't say "Nobody," for it wouldn't be true, and the right word didn't
seem to come; then I thought of the right one, and said it:

"Not a human being."

"That is so," said the others, and let their mouths go shut.

"It is not so," said Father Peter, and looked at us very severely.  "I
came by here a while ago, and there was no one here, but that is nothing;
some one has been here since.  I don't mean to say that the person didn't
pass here before you came, and I don't mean to say you saw him, but some
one did pass, that I know.  On your honor--you saw no one?"

"Not a human being."

"That is sufficient; I know you are telling me the truth."

He began to count the money on the path, we on our knees eagerly helping
to stack it in little piles.

"It's eleven hundred ducats odd!" he said.  "Oh dear! if it were only
mine--and I need it so!" and his voice broke and his lips quivered.

"It is yours, sir!" we all cried out at once, "every heller!"

"No--it isn't mine.  Only four ducats are mine; the rest...!" He fell to
dreaming, poor old soul, and caressing some of the coins in his hands,
and forgot where he was, sitting there on his heels with his old gray
head bare; it was pitiful to see.  "No," he said, waking up, "it isn't
mine.  I can't account for it.  I think some enemy...  it must be a
trap."

Nikolaus said: "Father Peter, with the exception of the astrologer you
haven't a real enemy in the village--nor Marget, either.  And not even a
half-enemy that's rich enough to chance eleven hundred ducats to do you a
mean turn.  I'll ask you if that's so or not?"

He couldn't get around that argument, and it cheered him up.  "But it
isn't mine, you see--it isn't mine, in any case."

He said it in a wistful way, like a person that wouldn't be sorry, but
glad, if anybody would contradict him.

"It is yours, Father Peter, and we are witness to it.  Aren't we, boys?"

"Yes, we are--and we'll stand by it, too."

"Bless your hearts, you do almost persuade me; you do, indeed.  If I had
only a hundred-odd ducats of it!  The house is mortgaged for it, and
we've no home for our heads if we don't pay to-morrow.  And that four
ducats is all we've got in the--"

"It's yours, every bit of it, and you've got to take it--we are bail that
it's all right.  Aren't we, Theodor?  Aren't we, Seppi?"

We two said yes, and Nikolaus stuffed the money back into the shabby old
wallet and made the owner take it.  So he said he would use two hundred
of it, for his house was good enough security for that, and would put the
rest at interest till the rightful owner came for it; and on our side we
must sign a paper showing how he got the money--a paper to show to the
villagers as proof that he had not got out of his troubles dishonestly.




Chapter 4

It made immense talk next day, when Father Peter paid Solomon Isaacs in
gold and left the rest of the money with him at interest.  Also, there
was a pleasant change; many people called at the house to congratulate
him, and a number of cool old friends became kind and friendly again;
and, to top all, Marget was invited to a party.

And there was no mystery; Father Peter told the whole circumstance just
as it happened, and said he could not account for it, only it was the
plain hand of Providence, so far as he could see.

One or two shook their heads and said privately it looked more like the
hand of Satan; and really that seemed a surprisingly good guess for
ignorant people like that.  Some came slyly buzzing around and tried to
coax us boys to come out and "tell the truth;" and promised they wouldn't
ever tell, but only wanted to know for their own satisfaction, because
the whole thing was so curious.  They even wanted to buy the secret, and
pay money for it; and if we could have invented something that would
answer--but we couldn't; we hadn't the ingenuity, so we had to let the
chance go by, and it was a pity.

We carried that secret around without any trouble, but the other one, the
big one, the splendid one, burned the very vitals of us, it was so hot to
get out and we so hot to let it out and astonish people with it.  But we
had to keep it in; in fact, it kept itself in.  Satan said it would, and
it did.  We went off every day and got to ourselves in the woods so that
we could talk about Satan, and really that was the only subject we
thought of or cared anything about; and day and night we watched for him
and hoped he would come, and we got more and more impatient all the time.
We hadn't any interest in the other boys any more, and wouldn't take part
in their games and enterprises.  They seemed so tame, after Satan; and
their doings so trifling and commonplace after his adventures in
antiquity and the constellations, and his miracles and meltings and
explosions, and all that.

During the first day we were in a state of anxiety on account of one
thing, and we kept going to Father Peter's house on one pretext or
another to keep track of it.  That was the gold coin; we were afraid it
would crumble and turn to dust, like fairy money.  If it did--But it
didn't.  At the end of the day no complaint had been made about it, so
after that we were satisfied that it was real gold, and dropped the
anxiety out of our minds.

There was a question which we wanted to ask Father Peter, and finally we
went there the second evening, a little diffidently, after drawing
straws, and I asked it as casually as I could, though it did not sound as
casual as I wanted, because I didn't know how:

"What is the Moral Sense, sir?"

He looked down, surprised, over his great spectacles, and said, "Why, it
is the faculty which enables us to distinguish good from evil."

It threw some light, but not a glare, and I was a little disappointed,
also to some degree embarrassed.  He was waiting for me to go on, so, in
default of anything else to say, I asked, "Is it valuable?"

"Valuable?  Heavens! lad, it is the one thing that lifts man above the
beasts that perish and makes him heir to immortality!"

This did not remind me of anything further to say, so I got out, with the
other boys, and we went away with that indefinite sense you have often
had of being filled but not fatted.  They wanted me to explain, but I was
tired.

We passed out through the parlor, and there was Marget at the spinnet
teaching Marie Lueger.  So one of the deserting pupils was back; and an
influential one, too; the others would follow.  Marget jumped up and ran
and thanked us again, with tears in her eyes--this was the third time
--for saving her and her uncle from being turned into the street, and we
told her again we hadn't done it; but that was her way, she never could
be grateful enough for anything a person did for her; so we let her have
her say.  And as we passed through the garden, there was Wilhelm Meidling
sitting there waiting, for it was getting toward the edge of the evening,
and he would be asking Marget to take a walk along the river with him
when she was done with the lesson.  He was a young lawyer, and succeeding
fairly well and working his way along, little by little.  He was very
fond of Marget, and she of him.  He had not deserted along with the
others, but had stood his ground all through.  His faithfulness was not
lost on Marget and her uncle.  He hadn't so very much talent, but he was
handsome and good, and these are a kind of talents themselves and help
along.  He asked us how the lesson was getting along, and we told him it
was about done.  And maybe it was so; we didn't know anything about it,
but we judged it would please him, and it did, and didn't cost us
anything.




Chapter 5

On the fourth day comes the astrologer from his crumbling old tower up
the valley, where he had heard the news, I reckon.  He had a private talk
with us, and we told him what we could, for we were mightily in dread of
him.  He sat there studying and studying awhile to himself; then he
asked:

"How many ducats did you say?"

"Eleven hundred and seven, sir."

Then he said, as if he were talking to himself: "It is ver-y singular.
Yes...  very strange.  A curious coincidence."  Then he began to ask
questions, and went over the whole ground from the beginning, we
answering.  By and by he said: "Eleven hundred and six ducats.  It is a
large sum."

"Seven," said Seppi, correcting him.

"Oh, seven, was it?  Of course a ducat more or less isn't of consequence,
but you said eleven hundred and six before."

It would not have been safe for us to say he was mistaken, but we knew he
was.  Nikolaus said, "We ask pardon for the mistake, but we meant to say
seven."

"Oh, it is no matter, lad; it was merely that I noticed the discrepancy.
It is several days, and you cannot be expected to remember precisely.
One is apt to be inexact when there is no particular circumstance to
impress the count upon the memory."

"But there was one, sir," said Seppi, eagerly.

"What was it, my son?" asked the astrologer, indifferently.

"First, we all counted the piles of coin, each in turn, and all made it
the same--eleven hundred and six.  But I had slipped one out, for fun,
when the count began, and now I slipped it back and said, 'I think there
is a mistake--there are eleven hundred and seven; let us count again.'
We did, and of course I was right.  They were astonished; then I told how
it came about."

The astrologer asked us if this was so, and we said it was.

"That settles it," he said.  "I know the thief now.  Lads, the money was
stolen."

Then he went away, leaving us very much troubled, and wondering what he
could mean.  In about an hour we found out; for by that time it was all
over the village that Father Peter had been arrested for stealing a great
sum of money from the astrologer.  Everybody's tongue was loose and
going.  Many said it was not in Father Peter's character and must be a
mistake; but the others shook their heads and said misery and want could
drive a suffering man to almost anything.  About one detail there were no
differences; all agreed that Father Peter's account of how the money came
into his hands was just about unbelievable--it had such an impossible
look.  They said it might have come into the astrologer's hands in some
such way, but into Father Peter's, never!  Our characters began to suffer
now.  We were Father Peter's only witnesses; how much did he probably pay
us to back up his fantastic tale?  People talked that kind of talk to us
pretty freely and frankly, and were full of scoffings when we begged them
to believe really we had told only the truth.  Our parents were harder on
us than any one else.  Our fathers said we were disgracing our families,
and they commanded us to purge ourselves of our lie, and there was no
limit to their anger when we continued to say we had spoken true.  Our
mothers cried over us and begged us to give back our bribe and get back
our honest names and save our families from shame, and come out and
honorably confess.  And at last we were so worried and harassed that we
tried to tell the whole thing, Satan and all--but no, it wouldn't come
out.  We were hoping and longing all the time that Satan would come and
help us out of our trouble, but there was no sign of him.

Within an hour after the astrologer's talk with us, Father Peter was in
prison and the money sealed up and in the hands of the officers of the
law.  The money was in a bag, and Solomon Isaacs said he had not touched
it since he had counted it; his oath was taken that it was the same
money, and that the amount was eleven hundred and seven ducats.  Father
Peter claimed trial by the ecclesiastical court, but our other priest,
Father Adolf, said an ecclesiastical court hadn't jurisdiction over a
suspended priest.  The bishop upheld him.  That settled it; the case
would go to trial in the civil court.  The court would not sit for some
time to come.  Wilhelm Meidling would be Father Peter's lawyer and do the
best he could, of course, but he told us privately that a weak case on
his side and all the power and prejudice on the other made the outlook
bad.

So Marget's new happiness died a quick death.  No friends came to condole
with her, and none were expected; an unsigned note withdrew her
invitation to the party.  There would be no scholars to take lessons.
How could she support herself?  She could remain in the house, for the
mortgage was paid off, though the government and not poor Solomon Isaacs
had the mortgage-money in its grip for the present.  Old Ursula, who was
cook, chambermaid, housekeeper, laundress, and everything else for Father
Peter, and had been Marget's nurse in earlier years, said God would
provide.  But she said that from habit, for she was a good Christian.
She meant to help in the providing, to make sure, if she could find a
way.

We boys wanted to go and see Marget and show friendliness for her, but
our parents were afraid of offending the community and wouldn't let us.
The astrologer was going around inflaming everybody against Father Peter,
and saying he was an abandoned thief and had stolen eleven hundred and
seven gold ducats from him.  He said he knew he was a thief from that
fact, for it was exactly the sum he had lost and which Father Peter
pretended he had "found."

In the afternoon of the fourth day after the catastrophe old Ursula
appeared at our house and asked for some washing to do, and begged my
mother to keep this secret, to save Marget's pride, who would stop this
project if she found it out, yet Marget had not enough to eat and was
growing weak.  Ursula was growing weak herself, and showed it; and she
ate of the food that was offered her like a starving person, but could
not be persuaded to carry any home, for Marget would not eat charity
food.  She took some clothes down to the stream to wash them, but we saw
from the window that handling the bat was too much for her strength; so
she was called back and a trifle of money offered her, which she was
afraid to take lest Marget should suspect; then she took it, saying she
would explain that she found it in the road.  To keep it from being a lie
and damning her soul, she got me to drop it while she watched; then she
went along by there and found it, and exclaimed with surprise and joy,
and picked it up and went her way.  Like the rest of the village, she
could tell every-day lies fast enough and without taking any precautions
against fire and brimstone on their account; but this was a new kind of
lie, and it had a dangerous look because she hadn't had any practice in
it.  After a week's practice it wouldn't have given her any trouble.  It
is the way we are made.

I was in trouble, for how would Marget live?  Ursula could not find a
coin in the road every day--perhaps not even a second one.  And I was
ashamed, too, for not having been near Marget, and she so in need of
friends; but that was my parents' fault, not mine, and I couldn't help
it.

I was walking along the path, feeling very down-hearted, when a most
cheery and tingling freshening-up sensation went rippling through me, and
I was too glad for any words, for I knew by that sign that Satan was by.
I had noticed it before.  Next moment he was alongside of me and I was
telling him all my trouble and what had been happening to Marget and her
uncle.  While we were talking we turned a curve and saw old Ursula
resting in the shade of a tree, and she had a lean stray kitten in her
lap and was petting it.  I asked her where she got it, and she said it
came out of the woods and followed her; and she said it probably hadn't
any mother or any friends and she was going to take it home and take care
of it.  Satan said:

"I understand you are very poor.  Why do you want to add another mouth to
feed?  Why don't you give it to some rich person?"

Ursula bridled at this and said: "Perhaps you would like to have it.  You
must be rich, with your fine clothes and quality airs."  Then she sniffed
and said: "Give it to the rich--the idea!  The rich don't care for
anybody but themselves; it's only the poor that have feeling for the
poor, and help them.  The poor and God.  God will provide for this
kitten."

"What makes you think so?"

Ursula's eyes snapped with anger.  "Because I know it!" she said.  "Not a
sparrow falls to the ground without His seeing it."

"But it falls, just the same.  What good is seeing it fall?"

Old Ursula's jaws worked, but she could not get any word out for the
moment, she was so horrified.  When she got her tongue, she stormed out,
"Go about your business, you puppy, or I will take a stick to you!"

I could not speak, I was so scared.  I knew that with his notions about
the human race Satan would consider it a matter of no consequence to
strike her dead, there being "plenty more"; but my tongue stood still, I
could give her no warning.  But nothing happened; Satan remained
tranquil--tranquil and indifferent.  I suppose he could not be insulted
by Ursula any more than the king could be insulted by a tumble-bug.  The
old woman jumped to her feet when she made her remark, and did it as
briskly as a young girl.  It had been many years since she had done the
like of that.  That was Satan's influence; he was a fresh breeze to the
weak and the sick, wherever he came.  His presence affected even the lean
kitten, and it skipped to the ground and began to chase a leaf.  This
surprised Ursula, and she stood looking at the creature and nodding her
head wonderingly, her anger quite forgotten.

"What's come over it?" she said.  "Awhile ago it could hardly walk."

"You have not seen a kitten of that breed before," said Satan.

Ursula was not proposing to be friendly with the mocking stranger, and
she gave him an ungentle look and retorted: "Who asked you to come here
and pester me, I'd like to know?  And what do you know about what I've
seen and what I haven't seen?"

"You haven't seen a kitten with the hair-spines on its tongue pointing to
the front, have you?"

"No--nor you, either."

"Well, examine this one and see."

Ursula was become pretty spry, but the kitten was spryer, and she could
not catch it, and had to give it up.  Then Satan said:

"Give it a name, and maybe it will come."

Ursula tried several names, but the kitten was not interested.

"Call it Agnes.  Try that."

The creature answered to the name and came.  Ursula examined its tongue.
"Upon my word, it's true!" she said.  "I have not seen this kind of a cat
before.  Is it yours?"

"No."

"Then how did you know its name so pat?"

"Because all cats of that breed are named Agnes; they will not answer to
any other."

Ursula was impressed.  "It is the most wonderful thing!" Then a shadow of
trouble came into her face, for her superstitions were aroused, and she
reluctantly put the creature down, saying: "I suppose I must let it go; I
am not afraid--no, not exactly that, though the priest--well, I've heard
people--indeed, many people...  And, besides, it is quite well now and
can take care of itself."  She sighed, and turned to go, murmuring: "It
is such a pretty one, too, and would be such company--and the house is so
sad and lonesome these troubled days...  Miss Marget so mournful and just
a shadow, and the old master shut up in jail."

"It seems a pity not to keep it," said Satan.

Ursula turned quickly--just as if she were hoping some one would
encourage her.

"Why?" she asked, wistfully.

"Because this breed brings luck."

"Does it?  Is it true?  Young man, do you know it to be true?  How does
it bring luck?"

"Well, it brings money, anyway."

Ursula looked disappointed.  "Money?  A cat bring money?  The idea!  You
could never sell it here; people do not buy cats here; one can't even
give them away."  She turned to go.

"I don't mean sell it.  I mean have an income from it.  This kind is
called the Lucky Cat.  Its owner finds four silver groschen in his pocket
every morning."

I saw the indignation rising in the old woman's face.  She was insulted.
This boy was making fun of her.  That was her thought.  She thrust her
hands into her pockets and straightened up to give him a piece of her
mind.  Her temper was all up, and hot.  Her mouth came open and let out
three words of a bitter sentence,...  then it fell silent, and the anger
in her face turned to surprise or wonder or fear, or something, and she
slowly brought out her hands from her pockets and opened them and held
them so.  In one was my piece of money, in the other lay four silver
groschen.  She gazed a little while, perhaps to see if the groschen would
vanish away; then she said, fervently:

"It's true--it's true--and I'm ashamed and beg forgiveness, O dear master
and benefactor!" And she ran to Satan and kissed his hand, over and over
again, according to the Austrian custom.

In her heart she probably believed it was a witch-cat and an agent of the
Devil; but no matter, it was all the more certain to be able to keep its
contract and furnish a daily good living for the family, for in matters
of finance even the piousest of our peasants would have more confidence
in an arrangement with the Devil than with an archangel.  Ursula started
homeward, with Agnes in her arms, and I said I wished I had her privilege
of seeing Marget.

Then I caught my breath, for we were there.  There in the parlor, and
Marget standing looking at us, astonished.  She was feeble and pale, but
I knew that those conditions would not last in Satan's atmosphere, and it
turned out so.  I introduced Satan--that is, Philip Traum--and we sat
down and talked.  There was no constraint.  We were simple folk, in our
village, and when a stranger was a pleasant person we were soon friends.
Marget wondered how we got in without her hearing us.  Traum said the
door was open, and we walked in and waited until she should turn around
and greet us.  This was not true; no door was open; we entered through
the walls or the roof or down the chimney, or somehow; but no matter,
what Satan wished a person to believe, the person was sure to believe,
and so Marget was quite satisfied with that explanation.  And then the
main part of her mind was on Traum, anyway; she couldn't keep her eyes
off him, he was so beautiful.  That gratified me, and made me proud.  I
hoped he would show off some, but he didn't.  He seemed only interested
in being friendly and telling lies.  He said he was an orphan.  That made
Marget pity him.  The water came into her eyes.  He said he had never
known his mamma; she passed away while he was a young thing; and said his
papa was in shattered health, and had no property to speak of--in fact,
none of any earthly value--but he had an uncle in business down in the
tropics, and he was very well off and had a monopoly, and it was from
this uncle that he drew his support.  The very mention of a kind uncle
was enough to remind Marget of her own, and her eyes filled again.  She
said she hoped their two uncles would meet, some day.  It made me
shudder.  Philip said he hoped so, too; and that made me shudder again.

"Maybe they will," said Marget.  "Does your uncle travel much?"

"Oh yes, he goes all about; he has business everywhere."

And so they went on chatting, and poor Marget forgot her sorrow for one
little while, anyway.  It was probably the only really bright and cheery
hour she had known lately.  I saw she liked Philip, and I knew she would.
And when he told her he was studying for the ministry I could see that
she liked him better than ever.  And then, when he promised to get her
admitted to the jail so that she could see her uncle, that was the
capstone.  He said he would give the guards a little present, and she
must always go in the evening after dark, and say nothing, "but just show
this paper and pass in, and show it again when you come out"--and he
scribbled some queer marks on the paper and gave it to her, and she was
ever so thankful, and right away was in a fever for the sun to go down;
for in that old, cruel time prisoners were not allowed to see their
friends, and sometimes they spent years in the jails without ever seeing
a friendly face.  I judged that the marks on the paper were an
enchantment, and that the guards would not know what they were doing, nor
have any memory of it afterward; and that was indeed the way of it.
Ursula put her head in at the door now and said:

"Supper's ready, miss."  Then she saw us and looked frightened, and
motioned me to come to her, which I did, and she asked if we had told
about the cat.  I said no, and she was relieved, and said please don't;
for if Miss Marget knew, she would think it was an unholy cat and would
send for a priest and have its gifts all purified out of it, and then
there wouldn't be any more dividends.  So I said we wouldn't tell, and
she was satisfied.  Then I was beginning to say good-by to Marget, but
Satan interrupted and said, ever so politely--well, I don't remember just
the words, but anyway he as good as invited himself to supper, and me,
too.  Of course Marget was miserably embarrassed, for she had no reason
to suppose there would be half enough for a sick bird.  Ursula heard him,
and she came straight into the room, not a bit pleased.  At first she was
astonished to see Marget looking so fresh and rosy, and said so; then she
spoke up in her native tongue, which was Bohemian, and said--as I learned
afterward--"Send him away, Miss Marget; there's not victuals enough."

Before Marget could speak, Satan had the word, and was talking back to
Ursula in her own language--which was a surprise to her, and for her
mistress, too.  He said, "Didn't I see you down the road awhile ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, that pleases me; I see you remember me."  He stepped to her and
whispered: "I told you it is a Lucky Cat.  Don't be troubled; it will
provide."

That sponged the slate of Ursula's feelings clean of its anxieties, and a
deep, financial joy shone in her eyes.  The cat's value was augmenting.
It was getting full time for Marget to take some sort of notice of
Satan's invitation, and she did it in the best way, the honest way that
was natural to her.  She said she had little to offer, but that we were
welcome if we would share it with her.

We had supper in the kitchen, and Ursula waited at table.  A small fish
was in the frying-pan, crisp and brown and tempting, and one could see
that Marget was not expecting such respectable food as this.  Ursula
brought it, and Marget divided it between Satan and me, declining to take
any of it herself; and was beginning to say she did not care for fish
to-day, but she did not finish the remark.  It was because she noticed
that another fish had appeared in the pan.  She looked surprised, but did
not say anything.  She probably meant to inquire of Ursula about this
later. There were other surprises: flesh and game and wines and fruits
--things which had been strangers in that house lately; but Marget made
no exclamations, and now even looked unsurprised, which was Satan's
influence, of course.  Satan talked right along, and was entertaining,
and made the time pass pleasantly and cheerfully; and although he told a
good many lies, it was no harm in him, for he was only an angel and did
not know any better.  They do not know right from wrong; I knew this,
because I remembered what he had said about it.  He got on the good side
of Ursula.  He praised her to Marget, confidentially, but speaking just
loud enough for Ursula to hear.  He said she was a fine woman, and he
hoped some day to bring her and his uncle together.  Very soon Ursula was
mincing and simpering around in a ridiculous girly way, and smoothing out
her gown and prinking at herself like a foolish old hen, and all the time
pretending she was not hearing what Satan was saying.  I was ashamed, for
it showed us to be what Satan considered us, a silly race and trivial.
Satan said his uncle entertained a great deal, and to have a clever woman
presiding over the festivities would double the attractions of the place.

"But your uncle is a gentleman, isn't he?" asked Marget.

"Yes," said Satan indifferently; "some even call him a Prince, out of
compliment, but he is not bigoted; to him personal merit is everything,
rank nothing."

My hand was hanging down by my chair; Agnes came along and licked it; by
this act a secret was revealed.  I started to say, "It is all a mistake;
this is just a common, ordinary cat; the hair-needles on her tongue point
inward, not outward."  But the words did not come, because they couldn't.
Satan smiled upon me, and I understood.

When it was dark Marget took food and wine and fruit, in a basket, and
hurried away to the jail, and Satan and I walked toward my home.  I was
thinking to myself that I should like to see what the inside of the jail
was like; Satan overheard the thought, and the next moment we were in the
jail.  We were in the torture-chamber, Satan said.  The rack was there,
and the other instruments, and there was a smoky lantern or two hanging
on the walls and helping to make the place look dim and dreadful.  There
were people there--and executioners--but as they took no notice of us, it
meant that we were invisible.  A young man lay bound, and Satan said he
was suspected of being a heretic, and the executioners were about to
inquire into it.  They asked the man to confess to the charge, and he
said he could not, for it was not true.  Then they drove splinter after
splinter under his nails, and he shrieked with the pain.  Satan was not
disturbed, but I could not endure it, and had to be whisked out of there.
I was faint and sick, but the fresh air revived me, and we walked toward
my home.  I said it was a brutal thing.

"No, it was a human thing.  You should not insult the brutes by such a
misuse of that word; they have not deserved it," and he went on talking
like that.  "It is like your paltry race--always lying, always claiming
virtues which it hasn't got, always denying them to the higher animals,
which alone possess them.  No brute ever does a cruel thing--that is the
monopoly of those with the Moral Sense.  When a brute inflicts pain he
does it innocently; it is not wrong; for him there is no such thing as
wrong.  And he does not inflict pain for the pleasure of inflicting it
--only man does that.  Inspired by that mongrel Moral Sense of his!  A
sense whose function is to distinguish between right and wrong, with
liberty to choose which of them he will do.  Now what advantage can he
get out of that?  He is always choosing, and in nine cases out of ten he
prefers the wrong.  There shouldn't be any wrong; and without the Moral
Sense there couldn't be any.  And yet he is such an unreasoning creature
that he is not able to perceive that the Moral Sense degrades him to the
bottom layer of animated beings and is a shameful possession.  Are you
feeling better?  Let me show you something."




Chapter 6

In a moment we were in a French village.  We walked through a great
factory of some sort, where men and women and little children were
toiling in heat and dirt and a fog of dust; and they were clothed in
rags, and drooped at their work, for they were worn and half starved, and
weak and drowsy.  Satan said:

"It is some more Moral Sense.  The proprietors are rich, and very holy;
but the wage they pay to these poor brothers and sisters of theirs is
only enough to keep them from dropping dead with hunger.  The work-hours
are fourteen per day, winter and summer--from six in the morning till
eight at night--little children and all.  And they walk to and from the
pigsties which they inhabit--four miles each way, through mud and slush,
rain, snow, sleet, and storm, daily, year in and year out.  They get four
hours of sleep.  They kennel together, three families in a room, in
unimaginable filth and stench; and disease comes, and they die off like
flies.  Have they committed a crime, these mangy things?  No.  What have
they done, that they are punished so?  Nothing at all, except getting
themselves born into your foolish race.  You have seen how they treat a
misdoer there in the jail; now you see how they treat the innocent and
the worthy.  Is your race logical?  Are these ill-smelling innocents
better off than that heretic?  Indeed, no; his punishment is trivial
compared with theirs.  They broke him on the wheel and smashed him to
rags and pulp after we left, and he is dead now, and free of your
precious race; but these poor slaves here--why, they have been dying for
years, and some of them will not escape from life for years to come.  It
is the Moral Sense which teaches the factory proprietors the difference
between right and wrong--you perceive the result.  They think themselves
better than dogs.  Ah, you are such an illogical, unreasoning race!  And
paltry--oh, unspeakably!"

Then he dropped all seriousness and just overstrained himself making fun
of us, and deriding our pride in our warlike deeds, our great heroes, our
imperishable fames, our mighty kings, our ancient aristocracies, our
venerable history--and laughed and laughed till it was enough to make a
person sick to hear him; and finally he sobered a little and said, "But,
after all, it is not all ridiculous; there is a sort of pathos about it
when one remembers how few are your days, how childish your pomps, and
what shadows you are!"

Presently all things vanished suddenly from my sight, and I knew what it
meant.  The next moment we were walking along in our village; and down
toward the river I saw the twinkling lights of the Golden Stag.  Then in
the dark I heard a joyful cry:

"He's come again!"

It was Seppi Wohlmeyer.  He had felt his blood leap and his spirits rise
in a way that could mean only one thing, and he knew Satan was near,
although it was too dark to see him.  He came to us, and we walked along
together, and Seppi poured out his gladness like water.  It was as if he
were a lover and had found his sweetheart who had been lost.  Seppi was a
smart and animated boy, and had enthusiasm and expression, and was a
contrast to Nikolaus and me.  He was full of the last new mystery, now
--the disappearance of Hans Oppert, the village loafer.  People were
beginning to be curious about it, he said.  He did not say anxious
--curious was the right word, and strong enough.  No one had seen Hans
for a couple of days.

"Not since he did that brutal thing, you know," he said.

"What brutal thing?" It was Satan that asked.

"Well, he is always clubbing his dog, which is a good dog, and his only
friend, and is faithful, and loves him, and does no one any harm; and two
days ago he was at it again, just for nothing--just for pleasure--and the
dog was howling and begging, and Theodor and I begged, too, but he
threatened us, and struck the dog again with all his might and knocked
one of his eyes out, and he said to us, 'There, I hope you are satisfied
now; that's what you have got for him by your damned meddling'--and he
laughed, the heartless brute."  Seppi's voice trembled with pity and
anger.  I guessed what Satan would say, and he said it.

"There is that misused word again--that shabby slander.  Brutes do not
act like that, but only men."

"Well, it was inhuman, anyway."

"No, it wasn't, Seppi; it was human--quite distinctly human.  It is not
pleasant to hear you libel the higher animals by attributing to them
dispositions which they are free from, and which are found nowhere but in
the human heart.  None of the higher animals is tainted with the disease
called the Moral Sense.  Purify your language, Seppi; drop those lying
phrases out of it."

He spoke pretty sternly--for him--and I was sorry I hadn't warned Seppi
to be more particular about the word he used.  I knew how he was feeling.
He would not want to offend Satan; he would rather offend all his kin.
There was an uncomfortable silence, but relief soon came, for that poor
dog came along now, with his eye hanging down, and went straight to
Satan, and began to moan and mutter brokenly, and Satan began to answer
in the same way, and it was plain that they were talking together in the
dog language.  We all sat down in the grass, in the moonlight, for the
clouds were breaking away now, and Satan took the dog's head in his lap
and put the eye back in its place, and the dog was comfortable, and he
wagged his tail and licked Satan's hand, and looked thankful and said the
same; I knew he was saying it, though I did not understand the words.
Then the two talked together a bit, and Satan said:

"He says his master was drunk."

"Yes, he was," said we.

"And an hour later he fell over the precipice there beyond the Cliff
Pasture."

"We know the place; it is three miles from here."

"And the dog has been often to the village, begging people to go there,
but he was only driven away and not listened to."

We remembered it, but hadn't understood what he wanted.

"He only wanted help for the man who had misused him, and he thought only
of that, and has had no food nor sought any.  He has watched by his
master two nights.  What do you think of your race?  Is heaven reserved
for it, and this dog ruled out, as your teachers tell you?  Can your race
add anything to this dog's stock of morals and magnanimities?" He spoke
to the creature, who jumped up, eager and happy, and apparently ready for
orders and impatient to execute them.  "Get some men; go with the dog--he
will show you that carrion; and take a priest along to arrange about
insurance, for death is near."

With the last word he vanished, to our sorrow and disappointment.  We got
the men and Father Adolf, and we saw the man die.  Nobody cared but the
dog; he mourned and grieved, and licked the dead face, and could not be
comforted.  We buried him where he was, and without a coffin, for he had
no money, and no friend but the dog.  If we had been an hour earlier the
priest would have been in time to send that poor creature to heaven, but
now he was gone down into the awful fires, to burn forever.  It seemed
such a pity that in a world where so many people have difficulty to put
in their time, one little hour could not have been spared for this poor
creature who needed it so much, and to whom it would have made the
difference between eternal joy and eternal pain.  It gave an appalling
idea of the value of an hour, and I thought I could never waste one again
without remorse and terror.  Seppi was depressed and grieved, and said it
must be so much better to be a dog and not run such awful risks.  We took
this one home with us and kept him for our own.  Seppi had a very good
thought as we were walking along, and it cheered us up and made us feel
much better.  He said the dog had forgiven the man that had wronged him
so, and maybe God would accept that absolution.

There was a very dull week, now, for Satan did not come, nothing much was
going on, and we boys could not venture to go and see Marget, because the
nights were moonlit and our parents might find us out if we tried.  But
we came across Ursula a couple of times taking a walk in the meadows
beyond the river to air the cat, and we learned from her that things were
going well.  She had natty new clothes on and bore a prosperous look.
The four groschen a day were arriving without a break, but were not being
spent for food and wine and such things--the cat attended to all that.

Marget was enduring her forsakenness and isolation fairly well, all
things considered, and was cheerful, by help of Wilhelm Meidling.  She
spent an hour or two every night in the jail with her uncle, and had
fattened him up with the cat's contributions.  But she was curious to
know more about Philip Traum, and hoped I would bring him again.  Ursula
was curious about him herself, and asked a good many questions about his
uncle.  It made the boys laugh, for I had told them the nonsense Satan
had been stuffing her with.  She got no satisfaction out of us, our
tongues being tied.

Ursula gave us a small item of information: money being plenty now, she
had taken on a servant to help about the house and run errands.  She
tried to tell it in a commonplace, matter-of-course way, but she was so
set up by it and so vain of it that her pride in it leaked out pretty
plainly.  It was beautiful to see her veiled delight in this grandeur,
poor old thing, but when we heard the name of the servant we wondered if
she had been altogether wise; for although we were young, and often
thoughtless, we had fairly good perception on some matters.  This boy was
Gottfried Narr, a dull, good creature, with no harm in him and nothing
against him personally; still, he was under a cloud, and properly so, for
it had not been six months since a social blight had mildewed the family
--his grandmother had been burned as a witch.  When that kind of a malady
is in the blood it does not always come out with just one burning.  Just
now was not a good time for Ursula and Marget to be having dealings with
a member of such a family, for the witch-terror had risen higher during
the past year than it had ever reached in the memory of the oldest
villagers.  The mere mention of a witch was almost enough to frighten us
out of our wits.  This was natural enough, because of late years there
were more kinds of witches than there used to be; in old times it had
been only old women, but of late years they were of all ages--even
children of eight and nine; it was getting so that anybody might turn out
to be a familiar of the Devil--age and sex hadn't anything to do with it.
In our little region we had tried to extirpate the witches, but the more
of them we burned the more of the breed rose up in their places.

Once, in a school for girls only ten miles away, the teachers found that
the back of one of the girls was all red and inflamed, and they were
greatly frightened, believing it to be the Devil's marks.  The girl was
scared, and begged them not to denounce her, and said it was only fleas;
but of course it would not do to let the matter rest there.  All the
girls were examined, and eleven out of the fifty were badly marked, the
rest less so.  A commission was appointed, but the eleven only cried for
their mothers and would not confess.  Then they were shut up, each by
herself, in the dark, and put on black bread and water for ten days and
nights; and by that time they were haggard and wild, and their eyes were
dry and they did not cry any more, but only sat and mumbled, and would
not take the food.  Then one of them confessed, and said they had often
ridden through the air on broomsticks to the witches' Sabbath, and in a
bleak place high up in the mountains had danced and drunk and caroused
with several hundred other witches and the Evil One, and all had
conducted themselves in a scandalous way and had reviled the priests and
blasphemed God.  That is what she said--not in narrative form, for she
was not able to remember any of the details without having them called to
her mind one after the other; but the commission did that, for they knew
just what questions to ask, they being all written down for the use of
witch-commissioners two centuries before.  They asked, "Did you do so and
so?" and she always said yes, and looked weary and tired, and took no
interest in it.  And so when the other ten heard that this one confessed,
they confessed, too, and answered yes to the questions.  Then they were
burned at the stake all together, which was just and right; and everybody
went from all the countryside to see it.  I went, too; but when I saw
that one of them was a bonny, sweet girl I used to play with, and looked
so pitiful there chained to the stake, and her mother crying over her and
devouring her with kisses and clinging around her neck, and saying, "Oh,
my God!  Oh, my God!" it was too dreadful, and I went away.

It was bitter cold weather when Gottfried's grandmother was burned.  It
was charged that she had cured bad headaches by kneading the person's
head and neck with her fingers--as she said--but really by the Devil's
help, as everybody knew.  They were going to examine her, but she stopped
them, and confessed straight off that her power was from the Devil.  So
they appointed to burn her next morning, early, in our market-square.
The officer who was to prepare the fire was there first, and prepared it.
She was there next--brought by the constables, who left her and went to
fetch another witch.  Her family did not come with her.  They might be
reviled, maybe stoned, if the people were excited.  I came, and gave her
an apple.  She was squatting at the fire, warming herself and waiting;
and her old lips and hands were blue with the cold.  A stranger came
next.  He was a traveler, passing through; and he spoke to her gently,
and, seeing nobody but me there to hear, said he was sorry for her.  And
he asked if what she confessed was true, and she said no.  He looked
surprised and still more sorry then, and asked her:

"Then why did you confess?"

"I am old and very poor," she said, "and I work for my living.  There was
no way but to confess.  If I hadn't they might have set me free.  That
would ruin me, for no one would forget that I had been suspected of being
a witch, and so I would get no more work, and wherever I went they would
set the dogs on me.  In a little while I would starve.  The fire is best;
it is soon over.  You have been good to me, you two, and I thank you."

She snuggled closer to the fire, and put out her hands to warm them, the
snow-flakes descending soft and still on her old gray head and making it
white and whiter.  The crowd was gathering now, and an egg came flying
and struck her in the eye, and broke and ran down her face.  There was a
laugh at that.

I told Satan all about the eleven girls and the old woman, once, but it
did not affect him.  He only said it was the human race, and what the
human race did was of no consequence.  And he said he had seen it made;
and it was not made of clay; it was made of mud--part of it was, anyway.
I knew what he meant by that--the Moral Sense.  He saw the thought in my
head, and it tickled him and made him laugh.  Then he called a bullock
out of a pasture and petted it and talked with it, and said:

"There--he wouldn't drive children mad with hunger and fright and
loneliness, and then burn them for confessing to things invented for them
which had never happened.  And neither would he break the hearts of
innocent, poor old women and make them afraid to trust themselves among
their own race; and he would not insult them in their death-agony.  For
he is not besmirched with the Moral Sense, but is as the angels are, and
knows no wrong, and never does it."

Lovely as he was, Satan could be cruelly offensive when he chose; and he
always chose when the human race was brought to his attention.  He always
turned up his nose at it, and never had a kind word for it.

Well, as I was saying, we boys doubted if it was a good time for Ursula
to be hiring a member of the Narr family.  We were right.  When the
people found it out they were naturally indignant.  And, moreover, since
Marget and Ursula hadn't enough to eat themselves, where was the money
coming from to feed another mouth?  That is what they wanted to know; and
in order to find out they stopped avoiding Gottfried and began to seek
his society and have sociable conversations with him.  He was pleased
--not thinking any harm and not seeing the trap--and so he talked
innocently along, and was no discreeter than a cow.

"Money!" he said; "they've got plenty of it.  They pay me two groschen a
week, besides my keep.  And they live on the fat of the land, I can tell
you; the prince himself can't beat their table."

This astonishing statement was conveyed by the astrologer to Father Adolf
on a Sunday morning when he was returning from mass.  He was deeply
moved, and said:

"This must be looked into."

He said there must be witchcraft at the bottom of it, and told the
villagers to resume relations with Marget and Ursula in a private and
unostentatious way, and keep both eyes open.  They were told to keep
their own counsel, and not rouse the suspicions of the household.  The
villagers were at first a bit reluctant to enter such a dreadful place,
but the priest said they would be under his protection while there, and
no harm could come to them, particularly if they carried a trifle of holy
water along and kept their beads and crosses handy.  This satisfied them
and made them willing to go; envy and malice made the baser sort even
eager to go.

And so poor Marget began to have company again, and was as pleased as a
cat.  She was like 'most anybody else--just human, and happy in her
prosperities and not averse from showing them off a little; and she was
humanly grateful to have the warm shoulder turned to her and he smiled
upon by her friends and the village again; for of all the hard things to
bear, to be cut by your neighbors and left in contemptuous solitude is
maybe the hardest.

The bars were down, and we could all go there now, and we did--our
parents and all--day after day.  The cat began to strain herself.  She
provided the top of everything for those companies, and in abundance
--among them many a dish and many a wine which they had not tasted before
and which they had not even heard of except at second-hand from the
prince's servants.  And the tableware was much above ordinary, too.

Marget was troubled at times, and pursued Ursula with questions to an
uncomfortable degree; but Ursula stood her ground and stuck to it that it
was Providence, and said no word about the cat.  Marget knew that nothing
was impossible to Providence, but she could not help having doubts that
this effort was from there, though she was afraid to say so, lest
disaster come of it.  Witchcraft occurred to her, but she put the thought
aside, for this was before Gottfried joined the household, and she knew
Ursula was pious and a bitter hater of witches.  By the time Gottfried
arrived Providence was established, unshakably intrenched, and getting
all the gratitude.  The cat made no murmur, but went on composedly
improving in style and prodigality by experience.

In any community, big or little, there is always a fair proportion of
people who are not malicious or unkind by nature, and who never do
unkind things except when they are overmastered by fear, or when their
self-interest is greatly in danger, or some such matter as that.
Eseldorf had its proportion of such people, and ordinarily their good and
gentle influence was felt, but these were not ordinary times--on account
of the witch-dread--and so we did not seem to have any gentle and
compassionate hearts left, to speak of.  Every person was frightened at
the unaccountable state of things at Marget's house, not doubting that
witchcraft was at the bottom of it, and fright frenzied their reason.
Naturally there were some who pitied Marget and Ursula for the danger
that was gathering about them, but naturally they did not say so; it
would not have been safe.  So the others had it all their own way, and
there was none to advise the ignorant girl and the foolish woman and warn
them to modify their doings.  We boys wanted to warn them, but we backed
down when it came to the pinch, being afraid.  We found that we were not
manly enough nor brave enough to do a generous action when there was a
chance that it could get us into trouble.  Neither of us confessed this
poor spirit to the others, but did as other people would have done
--dropped the subject and talked about something else.  And I knew we all
felt mean, eating and drinking Marget's fine things along with those
companies of spies, and petting her and complimenting her with the rest,
and seeing with self-reproach how foolishly happy she was, and never
saying a word to put her on her guard.  And, indeed, she was happy, and
as proud as a princess, and so grateful to have friends again.  And all
the time these people were watching with all their eyes and reporting all
they saw to Father Adolf.

But he couldn't make head or tail of the situation.  There must be an
enchanter somewhere on the premises, but who was it?  Marget was not seen
to do any jugglery, nor was Ursula, nor yet Gottfried; and still the
wines and dainties never ran short, and a guest could not call for a
thing and not get it.  To produce these effects was usual enough with
witches and enchanters--that part of it was not new; but to do it without
any incantations, or even any rumblings or earthquakes or lightnings or
apparitions--that was new, novel, wholly irregular.  There was nothing in
the books like this.  Enchanted things were always unreal.  Gold turned
to dirt in an unenchanted atmosphere, food withered away and vanished.
But this test failed in the present case.  The spies brought samples:
Father Adolf prayed over them, exorcised them, but it did no good; they
remained sound and real, they yielded to natural decay only, and took the
usual time to do it.

Father Adolf was not merely puzzled, he was also exasperated; for these
evidences very nearly convinced him--privately--that there was no
witchcraft in the matter.  It did not wholly convince him, for this could
be a new kind of witchcraft.  There was a way to find out as to this: if
this prodigal abundance of provender was not brought in from the outside,
but produced on the premises, there was witchcraft, sure.




Chapter 7

Marget announced a party, and invited forty people; the date for it was
seven days away.  This was a fine opportunity.  Marget's house stood by
itself, and it could be easily watched.  All the week it was watched
night and day.  Marget's household went out and in as usual, but they
carried nothing in their hands, and neither they nor others brought
anything to the house.  This was ascertained.  Evidently rations for
forty people were not being fetched.  If they were furnished any
sustenance it would have to be made on the premises.  It was true that
Marget went out with a basket every evening, but the spies ascertained
that she always brought it back empty.

The guests arrived at noon and filled the place.  Father Adolf followed;
also, after a little, the astrologer, without invitation.  The spies had
informed him that neither at the back nor the front had any parcels been
brought in.  He entered, and found the eating and drinking going on
finely, and everything progressing in a lively and festive way.  He
glanced around and perceived that many of the cooked delicacies and all
of the native and foreign fruits were of a perishable character, and he
also recognized that these were fresh and perfect.  No apparitions, no
incantations, no thunder.  That settled it.  This was witchcraft.  And
not only that, but of a new kind--a kind never dreamed of before.  It was
a prodigious power, an illustrious power; he resolved to discover its
secret.  The announcement of it would resound throughout the world,
penetrate to the remotest lands, paralyze all the nations with amazement
--and carry his name with it, and make him renowned forever.  It was a
wonderful piece of luck, a splendid piece of luck; the glory of it made
him dizzy.

All the house made room for him; Marget politely seated him; Ursula
ordered Gottfried to bring a special table for him.  Then she decked it
and furnished it, and asked for his orders.

"Bring me what you will," he said.

The two servants brought supplies from the pantry, together with white
wine and red--a bottle of each.  The astrologer, who very likely had
never seen such delicacies before, poured out a beaker of red wine, drank
it off, poured another, then began to eat with a grand appetite.

I was not expecting Satan, for it was more than a week since I had seen
or heard of him, but now he came in--I knew it by the feel, though people
were in the way and I could not see him.  I heard him apologizing for
intruding; and he was going away, but Marget urged him to stay, and he
thanked her and stayed.  She brought him along, introducing him to the
girls, and to Meidling, and to some of the elders; and there was quite a
rustle of whispers: "It's the young stranger we hear so much about and
can't get sight of, he is away so much."  "Dear, dear, but he is
beautiful--what is his name?" "Philip Traum."  "Ah, it fits him!" (You
see, "Traum" is German for "Dream.") "What does he do?" "Studying for the
ministry, they say."  "His face is his fortune--he'll be a cardinal some
day."  "Where is his home?"  "Away down somewhere in the tropics, they
say--has a rich uncle down there."  And so on.  He made his way at once;
everybody was anxious to know him and talk with him.  Everybody noticed
how cool and fresh it was, all of a sudden, and wondered at it, for they
could see that the sun was beating down the same as before, outside, and
the sky was clear of clouds, but no one guessed the reason, of course.

The astrologer had drunk his second beaker; he poured out a third.  He
set the bottle down, and by accident overturned it.  He seized it before
much was spilled, and held it up to the light, saying, "What a pity--it
is royal wine."  Then his face lighted with joy or triumph, or something,
and he said, "Quick!  Bring a bowl."

It was brought--a four-quart one.  He took up that two-pint bottle and
began to pour; went on pouring, the red liquor gurgling and gushing into
the white bowl and rising higher and higher up its sides, everybody
staring and holding their breath--and presently the bowl was full to the
brim.

"Look at the bottle," he said, holding it up; "it is full yet!" I glanced
at Satan, and in that moment he vanished.  Then Father Adolf rose up,
flushed and excited, crossed himself, and began to thunder in his great
voice, "This house is bewitched and accursed!" People began to cry and
shriek and crowd toward the door.  "I summon this detected household
to--"

His words were cut off short.  His face became red, then purple, but he
could not utter another sound.  Then I saw Satan, a transparent film,
melt into the astrologer's body; then the astrologer put up his hand, and
apparently in his own voice said, "Wait--remain where you are."  All
stopped where they stood.  "Bring a funnel!"  Ursula brought it,
trembling and scared, and he stuck it in the bottle and took up the great
bowl and began to pour the wine back, the people gazing and dazed with
astonishment, for they knew the bottle was already full before he began.
He emptied the whole of the bowl into the bottle, then smiled out over
the room, chuckled, and said, indifferently: "It is nothing--anybody can
do it!  With my powers I can even do much more."

A frightened cry burst out everywhere.  "Oh, my God, he is possessed!"
and there was a tumultuous rush for the door which swiftly emptied the
house of all who did not belong in it except us boys and Meidling.
We boys knew the secret, and would have told it if we could, but we
couldn't.  We were very thankful to Satan for furnishing that good help
at the needful time.

Marget was pale, and crying; Meidling looked kind of petrified; Ursula
the same; but Gottfried was the worst--he couldn't stand, he was so weak
and scared.  For he was of a witch family, you know, and it would be bad
for him to be suspected.  Agnes came loafing in, looking pious and
unaware, and wanted to rub up against Ursula and be petted, but Ursula
was afraid of her and shrank away from her, but pretending she was not
meaning any incivility, for she knew very well it wouldn't answer to have
strained relations with that kind of a cat.  But we boys took Agnes and
petted her, for Satan would not have befriended her if he had not had a
good opinion of her, and that was indorsement enough for us.  He seemed
to trust anything that hadn't the Moral Sense.

Outside, the guests, panic-stricken, scattered in every direction and
fled in a pitiable state of terror; and such a tumult as they made with
their running and sobbing and shrieking and shouting that soon all the
village came flocking from their houses to see what had happened, and
they thronged the street and shouldered and jostled one another in
excitement and fright; and then Father Adolf appeared, and they fell
apart in two walls like the cloven Red Sea, and presently down this lane
the astrologer came striding and mumbling, and where he passed the lanes
surged back in packed masses, and fell silent with awe, and their eyes
stared and their breasts heaved, and several women fainted; and when he
was gone by the crowd swarmed together and followed him at a distance,
talking excitedly and asking questions and finding out the facts.
Finding out the facts and passing them on to others, with improvements
--improvements which soon enlarged the bowl of wine to a barrel, and
made the one bottle hold it all and yet remain empty to the last.

When the astrologer reached the market-square he went straight to a
juggler, fantastically dressed, who was keeping three brass balls in the
air, and took them from him and faced around upon the approaching crowd
and said: "This poor clown is ignorant of his art.  Come forward and see
an expert perform."

So saying, he tossed the balls up one after another and set them whirling
in a slender bright oval in the air, and added another, then another and
another, and soon--no one seeing whence he got them--adding, adding,
adding, the oval lengthening all the time, his hands moving so swiftly
that they were just a web or a blur and not distinguishable as hands; and
such as counted said there were now a hundred balls in the air.  The
spinning great oval reached up twenty feet in the air and was a shining
and glinting and wonderful sight.  Then he folded his arms and told the
balls to go on spinning without his help--and they did it.  After a
couple of minutes he said, "There, that will do," and the oval broke and
came crashing down, and the balls scattered abroad and rolled every
whither.  And wherever one of them came the people fell back in dread,
and no one would touch it.  It made him laugh, and he scoffed at the
people and called them cowards and old women.  Then he turned and saw the
tight-rope, and said foolish people were daily wasting their money to see
a clumsy and ignorant varlet degrade that beautiful art; now they should
see the work of a master.  With that he made a spring into the air and
lit firm on his feet on the rope.  Then he hopped the whole length of it
back and forth on one foot, with his hands clasped over his eyes; and
next he began to throw somersaults, both backward and forward, and threw
twenty-seven.

The people murmured, for the astrologer was old, and always before had
been halting of movement and at times even lame, but he was nimble enough
now and went on with his antics in the liveliest manner.  Finally he
sprang lightly down and walked away, and passed up the road and around
the corner and disappeared.  Then that great, pale, silent, solid crowd
drew a deep breath and looked into one another's faces as if they said:
"Was it real?  Did you see it, or was it only I--and was I dreaming?"
Then they broke into a low murmur of talking, and fell apart in couples,
and moved toward their homes, still talking in that awed way, with faces
close together and laying a hand on an arm and making other such gestures
as people make when they have been deeply impressed by something.

We boys followed behind our fathers, and listened, catching all we could
of what they said; and when they sat down in our house and continued
their talk they still had us for company.  They were in a sad mood, for
it was certain, they said, that disaster for the village must follow this
awful visitation of witches and devils.  Then my father remembered that
Father Adolf had been struck dumb at the moment of his denunciation.

"They have not ventured to lay their hands upon an anointed servant of
God before," he said; "and how they could have dared it this time I
cannot make out, for he wore his crucifix.  Isn't it so?"

"Yes," said the others, "we saw it."

"It is serious, friends, it is very serious.  Always before, we had a
protection.  It has failed."

The others shook, as with a sort of chill, and muttered those words over
--"It has failed."  "God has forsaken us."

"It is true," said Seppi Wohlmeyer's father; "there is nowhere to look
for help."

"The people will realize this," said Nikolaus's father, the judge, "and
despair will take away their courage and their energies.  We have indeed
fallen upon evil times."

He sighed, and Wohlmeyer said, in a troubled voice: "The report of it all
will go about the country, and our village will be shunned as being under
the displeasure of God.  The Golden Stag will know hard times."

"True, neighbor," said my father; "all of us will suffer--all in repute,
many in estate.  And, good God!--"

"What is it?"

"That can come--to finish us!"

"Name it--um Gottes Willen!"

"The Interdict!"

It smote like a thunderclap, and they were like to swoon with the terror
of it.  Then the dread of this calamity roused their energies, and they
stopped brooding and began to consider ways to avert it.  They discussed
this, that, and the other way, and talked till the afternoon was far
spent, then confessed that at present they could arrive at no decision.
So they parted sorrowfully, with oppressed hearts which were filled with
bodings.

While they were saying their parting words I slipped out and set my
course for Marget's house to see what was happening there.  I met many
people, but none of them greeted me.  It ought to have been surprising,
but it was not, for they were so distraught with fear and dread that they
were not in their right minds, I think; they were white and haggard, and
walked like persons in a dream, their eyes open but seeing nothing, their
lips moving but uttering nothing, and worriedly clasping and unclasping
their hands without knowing it.

At Marget's it was like a funeral.  She and Wilhelm sat together on the
sofa, but said nothing, and not even holding hands.  Both were steeped in
gloom, and Marget's eyes were red from the crying she had been doing.
She said:

"I have been begging him to go, and come no more, and so save himself
alive.  I cannot bear to be his murderer.  This house is bewitched, and
no inmate will escape the fire.  But he will not go, and he will be lost
with the rest."

Wilhelm said he would not go; if there was danger for her, his place was
by her, and there he would remain.  Then she began to cry again, and it
was all so mournful that I wished I had stayed away.  There was a knock,
now, and Satan came in, fresh and cheery and beautiful, and brought that
winy atmosphere of his and changed the whole thing.  He never said a word
about what had been happening, nor about the awful fears which were
freezing the blood in the hearts of the community, but began to talk and
rattle on about all manner of gay and pleasant things; and next about
music--an artful stroke which cleared away the remnant of Marget's
depression and brought her spirits and her interests broad awake.  She
had not heard any one talk so well and so knowingly on that subject
before, and she was so uplifted by it and so charmed that what she was
feeling lit up her face and came out in her words; and Wilhelm noticed it
and did not look as pleased as he ought to have done.  And next Satan
branched off into poetry, and recited some, and did it well, and Marget
was charmed again; and again Wilhelm was not as pleased as he ought to
have been, and this time Marget noticed it and was remorseful.

I fell asleep to pleasant music that night--the patter of rain upon the
panes and the dull growling of distant thunder.  Away in the night Satan
came and roused me and said: "Come with me.  Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere--so it is with you."

Then there was a fierce glare of sunlight, and he said, "This is China."

That was a grand surprise, and made me sort of drunk with vanity and
gladness to think I had come so far--so much, much farther than anybody
else in our village, including Bartel Sperling, who had such a great
opinion of his travels.  We buzzed around over that empire for more than
half an hour, and saw the whole of it.  It was wonderful, the spectacles
we saw; and some were beautiful, others too horrible to think.  For
instance--However, I may go into that by and by, and also why Satan chose
China for this excursion instead of another place; it would interrupt my
tale to do it now.  Finally we stopped flitting and lit.

We sat upon a mountain commanding a vast landscape of mountain-range and
gorge and valley and plain and river, with cities and villages slumbering
in the sunlight, and a glimpse of blue sea on the farther verge.  It was
a tranquil and dreamy picture, beautiful to the eye and restful to the
spirit.  If we could only make a change like that whenever we wanted to,
the world would be easier to live in than it is, for change of scene
shifts the mind's burdens to the other shoulder and banishes old,
shop-worn wearinesses from mind and body both.

We talked together, and I had the idea of trying to reform Satan and
persuade him to lead a better life.  I told him about all those things he
had been doing, and begged him to be more considerate and stop making
people unhappy.  I said I knew he did not mean any harm, but that he
ought to stop and consider the possible consequences of a thing before
launching it in that impulsive and random way of his; then he would not
make so much trouble.  He was not hurt by this plain speech; he only
looked amused and surprised, and said:

"What?  I do random things?  Indeed, I never do.  I stop and consider
possible consequences?  Where is the need?  I know what the consequences
are going to be--always."

"Oh, Satan, then how could you do these things?"

"Well, I will tell you, and you must understand if you can.  You
belong to a singular race.  Every man is a suffering-machine and a
happiness-machine combined.  The two functions work together
harmoniously, with a fine and delicate precision, on the give-and-take
principle.  For every happiness turned out in the one department the
other stands ready to modify it with a sorrow or a pain--maybe a dozen.
In most cases the man's life is about equally divided between happiness
and unhappiness. When this is not the case the unhappiness predominates
--always; never the other.  Sometimes a man's make and disposition are
such that his misery-machine is able to do nearly all the business.  Such
a man goes through life almost ignorant of what happiness is.  Everything
he touches, everything he does, brings a misfortune upon him.  You have
seen such people?  To that kind of a person life is not an advantage, is
it?  It is only a disaster.  Sometimes for an hour's happiness a man's
machinery makes him pay years of misery.  Don't you know that?  It
happens every now and then.  I will give you a case or two presently. Now
the people of your village are nothing to me--you know that, don't you?"

I did not like to speak out too flatly, so I said I had suspected it.

"Well, it is true that they are nothing to me.  It is not possible that
they should be.  The difference between them and me is abysmal,
immeasurable.  They have no intellect."

"No intellect?"

"Nothing that resembles it.  At a future time I will examine what man
calls his mind and give you the details of that chaos, then you will see
and understand.  Men have nothing in common with me--there is no point of
contact; they have foolish little feelings and foolish little vanities
and impertinences and ambitions; their foolish little life is but a
laugh, a sigh, and extinction; and they have no sense.  Only the Moral
Sense.  I will show you what I mean.  Here is a red spider, not so big as
a pin's head.  Can you imagine an elephant being interested in him
--caring whether he is happy or isn't, or whether he is wealthy or poor,
or whether his sweetheart returns his love or not, or whether his mother
is sick or well, or whether he is looked up to in society or not, or
whether his enemies will smite him or his friends desert him, or whether
his hopes will suffer blight or his political ambitions fail, or whether
he shall die in the bosom of his family or neglected and despised in a
foreign land?  These things can never be important to the elephant; they
are nothing to him; he cannot shrink his sympathies to the microscopic
size of them.  Man is to me as the red spider is to the elephant.  The
elephant has nothing against the spider--he cannot get down to that
remote level; I have nothing against man.  The elephant is indifferent; I
am indifferent.  The elephant would not take the trouble to do the spider
an ill turn; if he took the notion he might do him a good turn, if it
came in his way and cost nothing.  I have done men good service, but no
ill turns.

"The elephant lives a century, the red spider a day; in power, intellect,
and dignity the one creature is separated from the other by a distance
which is simply astronomical.  Yet in these, as in all qualities, man is
immeasurably further below me than is the wee spider below the elephant.

"Man's mind clumsily and tediously and laboriously patches little
trivialities together and gets a result--such as it is.  My mind creates!
Do you get the force of that?  Creates anything it desires--and in a
moment.  Creates without material.  Creates fluids, solids, colors
--anything, everything--out of the airy nothing which is called Thought.
A man imagines a silk thread, imagines a machine to make it, imagines a
picture, then by weeks of labor embroiders it on canvas with the thread.
I think the whole thing, and in a moment it is before you--created.

"I think a poem, music, the record of a game of chess--anything--and it
is there.  This is the immortal mind--nothing is beyond its reach.
Nothing can obstruct my vision; the rocks are transparent to me, and
darkness is daylight.  I do not need to open a book; I take the whole of
its contents into my mind at a single glance, through the cover; and in a
million years I could not forget a single word of it, or its place in the
volume.  Nothing goes on in the skull of man, bird, fish, insect, or
other creature which can be hidden from me.  I pierce the learned man's
brain with a single glance, and the treasures which cost him threescore
years to accumulate are mine; he can forget, and he does forget, but I
retain.

"Now, then, I perceive by your thoughts that you are understanding me
fairly well.  Let us proceed.  Circumstances might so fall out that the
elephant could like the spider--supposing he can see it--but he could not
love it.  His love is for his own kind--for his equals.  An angel's love
is sublime, adorable, divine, beyond the imagination of man--infinitely
beyond it!  But it is limited to his own august order.  If it fell upon
one of your race for only an instant, it would consume its object to
ashes.  No, we cannot love men, but we can be harmlessly indifferent to
them; we can also like them, sometimes.  I like you and the boys, I like
Father Peter, and for your sakes I am doing all these things for the
villagers."

He saw that I was thinking a sarcasm, and he explained his position.

"I have wrought well for the villagers, though it does not look like it
on the surface.  Your race never know good fortune from ill.  They are
always mistaking the one for the other.  It is because they cannot see
into the future.  What I am doing for the villagers will bear good fruit
some day; in some cases to themselves; in others, to unborn generations
of men.  No one will ever know that I was the cause, but it will be none
the less true, for all that.  Among you boys you have a game: you stand a
row of bricks on end a few inches apart; you push a brick, it knocks its
neighbor over, the neighbor knocks over the next brick--and so on till
all the row is prostrate.  That is human life.  A child's first act
knocks over the initial brick, and the rest will follow inexorably.  If
you could see into the future, as I can, you would see everything that
was going to happen to that creature; for nothing can change the order of
its life after the first event has determined it.  That is, nothing will
change it, because each act unfailingly begets an act, that act begets
another, and so on to the end, and the seer can look forward down the
line and see just when each act is to have birth, from cradle to grave."

"Does God order the career?"

"Foreordain it?  No.  The man's circumstances and environment order it.
His first act determines the second and all that follow after.  But
suppose, for argument's sake, that the man should skip one of these acts;
an apparently trifling one, for instance; suppose that it had been
appointed that on a certain day, at a certain hour and minute and second
and fraction of a second he should go to the well, and he didn't go.
That man's career would change utterly, from that moment; thence to the
grave it would be wholly different from the career which his first act as
a child had arranged for him.  Indeed, it might be that if he had gone to
the well he would have ended his career on a throne, and that omitting to
do it would set him upon a career that would lead to beggary and a
pauper's grave.  For instance: if at any time--say in boyhood--Columbus
had skipped the triflingest little link in the chain of acts projected
and made inevitable by his first childish act, it would have changed his
whole subsequent life, and he would have become a priest and died obscure
in an Italian village, and America would not have been discovered for two
centuries afterward.  I know this.  To skip any one of the billion acts
in Columbus's chain would have wholly changed his life.  I have examined
his billion of possible careers, and in only one of them occurs the
discovery of America.  You people do not suspect that all of your acts
are of one size and importance, but it is true; to snatch at an appointed
fly is as big with fate for you as is any other appointed act--"

"As the conquering of a continent, for instance?"

"Yes.  Now, then, no man ever does drop a link--the thing has never
happened!  Even when he is trying to make up his mind as to whether he
will do a thing or not, that itself is a link, an act, and has its proper
place in his chain; and when he finally decides an act, that also was the
thing which he was absolutely certain to do.  You see, now, that a man
will never drop a link in his chain.  He cannot.  If he made up his mind
to try, that project would itself be an unavoidable link--a thought bound
to occur to him at that precise moment, and made certain by the first act
of his babyhood."

It seemed so dismal!

"He is a prisoner for life," I said sorrowfully, "and cannot get free."

"No, of himself he cannot get away from the consequences of his first
childish act.  But I can free him."

I looked up wistfully.

"I have changed the careers of a number of your villagers."

I tried to thank him, but found it difficult, and let it drop.

"I shall make some other changes.  You know that little Lisa Brandt?"

"Oh yes, everybody does.  My mother says she is so sweet and so lovely
that she is not like any other child.  She says she will be the pride of
the village when she grows up; and its idol, too, just as she is now."

"I shall change her future."

"Make it better?" I asked.

"Yes.  And I will change the future of Nikolaus."

I was glad, this time, and said, "I don't need to ask about his case; you
will be sure to do generously by him."

"It is my intention."

Straight off I was building that great future of Nicky's in my
imagination, and had already made a renowned general of him and
hofmeister at the court, when I noticed that Satan was waiting for me to
get ready to listen again.  I was ashamed of having exposed my cheap
imaginings to him, and was expecting some sarcasms, but it did not
happen.  He proceeded with his subject:

"Nicky's appointed life is sixty-two years."

"That's grand!" I said.

"Lisa's, thirty-six.  But, as I told you, I shall change their lives and
those ages.  Two minutes and a quarter from now Nikolaus will wake out of
his sleep and find the rain blowing in.  It was appointed that he should
turn over and go to sleep again.  But I have appointed that he shall get
up and close the window first.  That trifle will change his career
entirely.  He will rise in the morning two minutes later than the chain
of his life had appointed him to rise.  By consequence, thenceforth
nothing will ever happen to him in accordance with the details of the old
chain."  He took out his watch and sat looking at it a few moments, then
said: "Nikolaus has risen to close the window.  His life is changed, his
new career has begun.  There will be consequences."

It made me feel creepy; it was uncanny.

"But for this change certain things would happen twelve days from now.
For instance, Nikolaus would save Lisa from drowning.  He would arrive
on the scene at exactly the right moment--four minutes past ten, the
long-ago appointed instant of time--and the water would be shoal, the
achievement easy and certain.  But he will arrive some seconds too late,
now; Lisa will have struggled into deeper water.  He will do his best,
but both will drown."

"Oh, Satan!  Oh, dear Satan!" I cried, with the tears rising in my eyes,
"save them!  Don't let it happen.  I can't bear to lose Nikolaus, he is
my loving playmate and friend; and think of Lisa's poor mother!"

I clung to him and begged and pleaded, but he was not moved.  He made me
sit down again, and told me I must hear him out.

"I have changed Nikolaus's life, and this has changed Lisa's.  If I had
not done this, Nikolaus would save Lisa, then he would catch cold from
his drenching; one of your race's fantastic and desolating scarlet fevers
would follow, with pathetic after-effects; for forty-six years he would
lie in his bed a paralytic log, deaf, dumb, blind, and praying night and
day for the blessed relief of death.  Shall I change his life back?"

"Oh no!  Oh, not for the world!  In charity and pity leave it as it is."

"It is best so.  I could not have changed any other link in his life and
done him so good a service.  He had a billion possible careers, but not
one of them was worth living; they were charged full with miseries and
disasters.  But for my intervention he would do his brave deed twelve
days from now--a deed begun and ended in six minutes--and get for all
reward those forty-six years of sorrow and suffering I told you of.  It
is one of the cases I was thinking of awhile ago when I said that
sometimes an act which brings the actor an hour's happiness and
self-satisfaction is paid for--or punished--by years of suffering."

I wondered what poor little Lisa's early death would save her from.  He
answered the thought:

"From ten years of pain and slow recovery from an accident, and then from
nineteen years' pollution, shame, depravity, crime, ending with death at
the hands of the executioner.  Twelve days hence she will die; her mother
would save her life if she could.  Am I not kinder than her mother?"

"Yes--oh, indeed yes; and wiser."

"Father Peter's case is coming on presently.  He will be acquitted,
through unassailable proofs of his innocence."

"Why, Satan, how can that be?  Do you really think it?"

"Indeed, I know it.  His good name will be restored, and the rest of his
life will be happy."

"I can believe it.  To restore his good name will have that effect."

"His happiness will not proceed from that cause.  I shall change his life
that day, for his good.  He will never know his good name has been
restored."

In my mind--and modestly--I asked for particulars, but Satan paid no
attention to my thought.  Next, my mind wandered to the astrologer, and I
wondered where he might be.

"In the moon," said Satan, with a fleeting sound which I believed was a
chuckle.  "I've got him on the cold side of it, too.  He doesn't know
where he is, and is not having a pleasant time; still, it is good enough
for him, a good place for his star studies.  I shall need him presently;
then I shall bring him back and possess him again.  He has a long and
cruel and odious life before him, but I will change that, for I have no
feeling against him and am quite willing to do him a kindness.  I think I
shall get him burned."

He had such strange notions of kindness!  But angels are made so, and do
not know any better.  Their ways are not like our ways; and, besides,
human beings are nothing to them; they think they are only freaks.  It
seems to me odd that he should put the astrologer so far away; he could
have dumped him in Germany just as well, where he would be handy.

"Far away?" said Satan.  "To me no place is far away; distance does not
exist for me.  The sun is less than a hundred million miles from here,
and the light that is falling upon us has taken eight minutes to come;
but I can make that flight, or any other, in a fraction of time so minute
that it cannot be measured by a watch.  I have but to think the journey,
and it is accomplished."

I held out my hand and said, "The light lies upon it; think it into a
glass of wine, Satan."

He did it.  I drank the wine.

"Break the glass," he said.

I broke it.

"There--you see it is real.  The villagers thought the brass balls were
magic stuff and as perishable as smoke.  They were afraid to touch them.
You are a curious lot--your race.  But come along; I have business.  I
will put you to bed."  Said and done.  Then he was gone; but his voice
came back to me through the rain and darkness saying, "Yes, tell Seppi,
but no other."

It was the answer to my thought.




Chapter 8

Sleep would not come.  It was not because I was proud of my travels and
excited about having been around the big world to China, and feeling
contemptuous of Bartel Sperling, "the traveler," as he called himself,
and looked down upon us others because he had been to Vienna once and was
the only Eseldorf boy who had made such a journey and seen the world's
wonders.  At another time that would have kept me awake, but it did not
affect me now.  No, my mind was filled with Nikolaus, my thoughts ran
upon him only, and the good days we had seen together at romps and
frolics in the woods and the fields and the river in the long summer
days, and skating and sliding in the winter when our parents thought we
were in school.  And now he was going out of this young life, and the
summers and winters would come and go, and we others would rove and play
as before, but his place would be vacant; we should see him no more.
To-morrow he would not suspect, but would be as he had always been, and
it would shock me to hear him laugh, and see him do lightsome and
frivolous things, for to me he would be a corpse, with waxen hands and
dull eyes, and I should see the shroud around his face; and next day he
would not suspect, nor the next, and all the time his handful of days
would be wasting swiftly away and that awful thing coming nearer and
nearer, his fate closing steadily around him and no one knowing it but
Seppi and me. Twelve days--only twelve days.  It was awful to think of.
I noticed that in my thoughts I was not calling him by his familiar
names, Nick and Nicky, but was speaking of him by his full name, and
reverently, as one speaks of the dead.  Also, as incident after incident
of our comradeship came thronging into my mind out of the past, I noticed
that they were mainly cases where I had wronged him or hurt him, and they
rebuked me and reproached me, and my heart was wrung with remorse, just
as it is when we remember our unkindnesses to friends who have passed
beyond the veil, and we wish we could have them back again, if only for a
moment, so that we could go on our knees to them and say, "Have pity, and
forgive."

Once when we were nine years old he went a long errand of nearly two
miles for the fruiterer, who gave him a splendid big apple for reward,
and he was flying home with it, almost beside himself with astonishment
and delight, and I met him, and he let me look at the apple, not thinking
of treachery, and I ran off with it, eating it as I ran, he following me
and begging; and when he overtook me I offered him the core, which was
all that was left; and I laughed.  Then he turned away, crying, and said
he had meant to give it to his little sister.  That smote me, for she was
slowly getting well of a sickness, and it would have been a proud moment
for him, to see her joy and surprise and have her caresses.  But I was
ashamed to say I was ashamed, and only said something rude and mean, to
pretend I did not care, and he made no reply in words, but there was a
wounded look in his face as he turned away toward his home which rose
before me many times in after years, in the night, and reproached me and
made me ashamed again.  It had grown dim in my mind, by and by, then it
disappeared; but it was back now, and not dim.

Once at school, when we were eleven, I upset my ink and spoiled four
copy-books, and was in danger of severe punishment; but I put it upon
him, and he got the whipping.

And only last year I had cheated him in a trade, giving him a large
fish-hook which was partly broken through for three small sound ones.
The first fish he caught broke the hook, but he did not know I was
blamable, and he refused to take back one of the small hooks which my
conscience forced me to offer him, but said, "A trade is a trade; the
hook was bad, but that was not your fault."

No, I could not sleep.  These little, shabby wrongs upbraided me and
tortured me, and with a pain much sharper than one feels when the wrongs
have been done to the living.  Nikolaus was living, but no matter; he was
to me as one already dead.  The wind was still moaning about the eaves,
the rain still pattering upon the panes.

In the morning I sought out Seppi and told him.  It was down by the
river.  His lips moved, but he did not say anything, he only looked dazed
and stunned, and his face turned very white.  He stood like that a few
moments, the tears welling into his eyes, then he turned away and I
locked my arm in his and we walked along thinking, but not speaking.  We
crossed the bridge and wandered through the meadows and up among the
hills and the woods, and at last the talk came and flowed freely, and it
was all about Nikolaus and was a recalling of the life we had lived with
him.  And every now and then Seppi said, as if to himself:

"Twelve days!--less than twelve days."

We said we must be with him all the time; we must have all of him we
could; the days were precious now.  Yet we did not go to seek him.  It
would be like meeting the dead, and we were afraid.  We did not say it,
but that was what we were feeling.  And so it gave us a shock when we
turned a curve and came upon Nikolaus face to face.  He shouted, gaily:

"Hi-hi!  What is the matter?  Have you seen a ghost?"

We couldn't speak, but there was no occasion; he was willing to talk for
us all, for he had just seen Satan and was in high spirits about it.
Satan had told him about our trip to China, and he had begged Satan to
take him a journey, and Satan had promised.  It was to be a far journey,
and wonderful and beautiful; and Nikolaus had begged him to take us, too,
but he said no, he would take us some day, maybe, but not now.  Satan
would come for him on the 13th, and Nikolaus was already counting the
hours, he was so impatient.

That was the fatal day.  We were already counting the hours, too.

We wandered many a mile, always following paths which had been our
favorites from the days when we were little, and always we talked about
the old times.  All the blitheness was with Nikolaus; we others could not
shake off our depression.  Our tone toward Nikolaus was so strangely
gentle and tender and yearning that he noticed it, and was pleased; and
we were constantly doing him deferential little offices of courtesy, and
saying, "Wait, let me do that for you," and that pleased him, too.  I
gave him seven fish-hooks--all I had--and made him take them; and Seppi
gave him his new knife and a humming-top painted red and yellow
--atonements for swindles practised upon him formerly, as I learned
later, and probably no longer remembered by Nikolaus now.  These things
touched him, and he could not have believed that we loved him so; and his
pride in it and gratefulness for it cut us to the heart, we were so
undeserving of them.  When we parted at last, he was radiant, and said he
had never had such a happy day.

As we walked along homeward, Seppi said, "We always prized him, but never
so much as now, when we are going to lose him."

Next day and every day we spent all of our spare time with Nikolaus; and
also added to it time which we (and he) stole from work and other duties,
and this cost the three of us some sharp scoldings, and some threats of
punishment.  Every morning two of us woke with a start and a shudder,
saying, as the days flew along, "Only ten days left;" "only nine days
left;" "only eight;" "only seven."  Always it was narrowing.  Always
Nikolaus was gay and happy, and always puzzled because we were not.  He
wore his invention to the bone trying to invent ways to cheer us up, but
it was only a hollow success; he could see that our jollity had no heart
in it, and that the laughs we broke into came up against some obstruction
or other and suffered damage and decayed into a sigh.  He tried to find
out what the matter was, so that he could help us out of our trouble or
make it lighter by sharing it with us; so we had to tell many lies to
deceive him and appease him.

But the most distressing thing of all was that he was always making
plans, and often they went beyond the 13th!  Whenever that happened it
made us groan in spirit.  All his mind was fixed upon finding some way to
conquer our depression and cheer us up; and at last, when he had but
three days to live, he fell upon the right idea and was jubilant over it
--a boys-and-girls' frolic and dance in the woods, up there where we
first met Satan, and this was to occur on the 14th.  It was ghastly, for
that was his funeral day.  We couldn't venture to protest; it would only
have brought a "Why?" which we could not answer.  He wanted us to help
him invite his guests, and we did it--one can refuse nothing to a dying
friend.  But it was dreadful, for really we were inviting them to his
funeral.

It was an awful eleven days; and yet, with a lifetime stretching back
between to-day and then, they are still a grateful memory to me, and
beautiful.  In effect they were days of companionship with one's sacred
dead, and I have known no comradeship that was so close or so precious.
We clung to the hours and the minutes, counting them as they wasted away,
and parting with them with that pain and bereavement which a miser feels
who sees his hoard filched from him coin by coin by robbers and is
helpless to prevent it.

When the evening of the last day came we stayed out too long; Seppi and I
were in fault for that; we could not bear to part with Nikolaus; so it
was very late when we left him at his door.  We lingered near awhile,
listening; and that happened which we were fearing.  His father gave him
the promised punishment, and we heard his shrieks.  But we listened only
a moment, then hurried away, remorseful for this thing which we had
caused.  And sorry for the father, too; our thought being, "If he only
knew--if he only knew!"

In the morning Nikolaus did not meet us at the appointed place, so we
went to his home to see what the matter was.  His mother said:

"His father is out of all patience with these goings-on, and will not
have any more of it.  Half the time when Nick is needed he is not to be
found; then it turns out that he has been gadding around with you two.
His father gave him a flogging last night.  It always grieved me before,
and many's the time I have begged him off and saved him, but this time he
appealed to me in vain, for I was out of patience myself."

"I wish you had saved him just this one time," I said, my voice trembling
a little; "it would ease a pain in your heart to remember it some day."

She was ironing at the time, and her back was partly toward me.  She
turned about with a startled or wondering look in her face and said,
"What do you mean by that?"

I was not prepared, and didn't know anything to say; so it was awkward,
for she kept looking at me; but Seppi was alert and spoke up:

"Why, of course it would be pleasant to remember, for the very reason we
were out so late was that Nikolaus got to telling how good you are to
him, and how he never got whipped when you were by to save him; and he
was so full of it, and we were so full of the interest of it, that none
of us noticed how late it was getting."

"Did he say that?  Did he?" and she put her apron to her eyes.

"You can ask Theodor--he will tell you the same."

"It is a dear, good lad, my Nick," she said.  "I am sorry I let him get
whipped; I will never do it again.  To think--all the time I was sitting
here last night, fretting and angry at him, he was loving me and praising
me!  Dear, dear, if we could only know!  Then we shouldn't ever go wrong;
but we are only poor, dumb beasts groping around and making mistakes.  I
shan't ever think of last night without a pang."

She was like all the rest; it seemed as if nobody could open a mouth, in
these wretched days, without saying something that made us shiver.  They
were "groping around," and did not know what true, sorrowfully true
things they were saying by accident.

Seppi asked if Nikolaus might go out with us.

"I am sorry," she answered, "but he can't.  To punish him further, his
father doesn't allow him to go out of the house to-day."

We had a great hope!  I saw it in Seppi's eyes.  We thought, "If he
cannot leave the house, he cannot be drowned."  Seppi asked, to make
sure:

"Must he stay in all day, or only the morning?"

"All day.  It's such a pity, too; it's a beautiful day, and he is so
unused to being shut up.  But he is busy planning his party, and maybe
that is company for him.  I do hope he isn't too lonesome."

Seppi saw that in her eye which emboldened him to ask if we might go up
and help him pass his time.

"And welcome!" she said, right heartily.  "Now I call that real
friendship, when you might be abroad in the fields and the woods, having
a happy time.  You are good boys, I'll allow that, though you don't
always find satisfactory ways of improving it.  Take these cakes--for
yourselves--and give him this one, from his mother."

The first thing we noticed when we entered Nikolaus's room was the time
--a quarter to 10.  Could that be correct?  Only such a few minutes to
live!  I felt a contraction at my heart.  Nikolaus jumped up and gave us
a glad welcome.  He was in good spirits over his plannings for his party
and had not been lonesome.

"Sit down," he said, "and look at what I've been doing.  And I've
finished a kite that you will say is a beauty.  It's drying, in the
kitchen; I'll fetch it."

He had been spending his penny savings in fanciful trifles of various
kinds, to go as prizes in the games, and they were marshaled with fine
and showy effect upon the table.  He said:

"Examine them at your leisure while I get mother to touch up the kite
with her iron if it isn't dry enough yet."

Then he tripped out and went clattering down-stairs, whistling.

We did not look at the things; we couldn't take any interest in anything
but the clock.  We sat staring at it in silence, listening to the
ticking, and every time the minute-hand jumped we nodded recognition--one
minute fewer to cover in the race for life or for death.  Finally Seppi
drew a deep breath and said:

"Two minutes to ten.  Seven minutes more and he will pass the
death-point.  Theodor, he is going to be saved!  He's going to--"

"Hush!  I'm on needles.  Watch the clock and keep still."

Five minutes more.  We were panting with the strain and the excitement.
Another three minutes, and there was a footstep on the stair.

"Saved!" And we jumped up and faced the door.

The old mother entered, bringing the kite.  "Isn't it a beauty?" she
said.  "And, dear me, how he has slaved over it--ever since daylight, I
think, and only finished it awhile before you came."  She stood it
against the wall, and stepped back to take a view of it.  "He drew the
pictures his own self, and I think they are very good.  The church isn't
so very good, I'll have to admit, but look at the bridge--any one can
recognize the bridge in a minute.  He asked me to bring it up....  Dear
me! it's seven minutes past ten, and I--"

"But where is he?"

"He?  Oh, he'll be here soon; he's gone out a minute."

"Gone out?"

"Yes.  Just as he came down-stairs little Lisa's mother came in and said
the child had wandered off somewhere, and as she was a little uneasy I
told Nikolaus to never mind about his father's orders--go and look her
up....  Why, how white you two do look!  I do believe you are sick.  Sit
down; I'll fetch something.  That cake has disagreed with you.  It is a
little heavy, but I thought--"

She disappeared without finishing her sentence, and we hurried at once to
the back window and looked toward the river.  There was a great crowd at
the other end of the bridge, and people were flying toward that point
from every direction.

"Oh, it is all over--poor Nikolaus!  Why, oh, why did she let him get out
of the house!"

"Come away," said Seppi, half sobbing, "come quick--we can't bear to meet
her; in five minutes she will know."

But we were not to escape.  She came upon us at the foot of the stairs,
with her cordials in her hands, and made us come in and sit down and take
the medicine.  Then she watched the effect, and it did not satisfy her;
so she made us wait longer, and kept upbraiding herself for giving us the
unwholesome cake.

Presently the thing happened which we were dreading.  There was a sound
of tramping and scraping outside, and a crowd came solemnly in, with
heads uncovered, and laid the two drowned bodies on the bed.

"Oh, my God!" that poor mother cried out, and fell on her knees, and put
her arms about her dead boy and began to cover the wet face with kisses.
"Oh, it was I that sent him, and I have been his death.  If I had obeyed,
and kept him in the house, this would not have happened.  And I am
rightly punished; I was cruel to him last night, and him begging me, his
own mother, to be his friend."

And so she went on and on, and all the women cried, and pitied her, and
tried to comfort her, but she could not forgive herself and could not be
comforted, and kept on saying if she had not sent him out he would be
alive and well now, and she was the cause of his death.

It shows how foolish people are when they blame themselves for anything
they have done.  Satan knows, and he said nothing happens that your first
act hasn't arranged to happen and made inevitable; and so, of your own
motion you can't ever alter the scheme or do a thing that will break a
link.  Next we heard screams, and Frau Brandt came wildly plowing and
plunging through the crowd with her dress in disorder and hair flying
loose, and flung herself upon her dead child with moans and kisses and
pleadings and endearments; and by and by she rose up almost exhausted
with her outpourings of passionate emotion, and clenched her fist and
lifted it toward the sky, and her tear-drenched face grew hard and
resentful, and she said:

"For nearly two weeks I have had dreams and presentiments and warnings
that death was going to strike what was most precious to me, and day and
night and night and day I have groveled in the dirt before Him praying
Him to have pity on my innocent child and save it from harm--and here is
His answer!"

Why, He had saved it from harm--but she did not know.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, and stood awhile gazing
down at the child and caressing its face and its hair with her hands;
then she spoke again in that bitter tone: "But in His hard heart is no
compassion.  I will never pray again."

She gathered her dead child to her bosom and strode away, the crowd
falling back to let her pass, and smitten dumb by the awful words they
had heard.  Ah, that poor woman!  It is as Satan said, we do not know
good fortune from bad, and are always mistaking the one for the other.
Many a time since I have heard people pray to God to spare the life of
sick persons, but I have never done it.

Both funerals took place at the same time in our little church next day.
Everybody was there, including the party guests.  Satan was there, too;
which was proper, for it was on account of his efforts that the funerals
had happened.  Nikolaus had departed this life without absolution, and a
collection was taken up for masses, to get him out of purgatory.  Only
two-thirds of the required money was gathered, and the parents were going
to try to borrow the rest, but Satan furnished it.  He told us privately
that there was no purgatory, but he had contributed in order that
Nikolaus's parents and their friends might be saved from worry and
distress.  We thought it very good of him, but he said money did not cost
him anything.

At the graveyard the body of little Lisa was seized for debt by a
carpenter to whom the mother owed fifty groschen for work done the year
before.  She had never been able to pay this, and was not able now.  The
carpenter took the corpse home and kept it four days in his cellar, the
mother weeping and imploring about his house all the time; then he buried
it in his brother's cattle-yard, without religious ceremonies.  It drove
the mother wild with grief and shame, and she forsook her work and went
daily about the town, cursing the carpenter and blaspheming the laws of
the emperor and the church, and it was pitiful to see.  Seppi asked Satan
to interfere, but he said the carpenter and the rest were members of the
human race and were acting quite neatly for that species of animal.  He
would interfere if he found a horse acting in such a way, and we must
inform him when we came across that kind of horse doing that kind of
human thing, so that he could stop it.  We believed this was sarcasm, for
of course there wasn't any such horse.

But after a few days we found that we could not abide that poor woman's
distress, so we begged Satan to examine her several possible careers, and
see if he could not change her, to her profit, to a new one.  He said the
longest of her careers as they now stood gave her forty-two years to
live, and her shortest one twenty-nine, and that both were charged with
grief and hunger and cold and pain.  The only improvement he could make
would be to enable her to skip a certain three minutes from now; and he
asked us if he should do it.  This was such a short time to decide in
that we went to pieces with nervous excitement, and before we could pull
ourselves together and ask for particulars he said the time would be up
in a few more seconds; so then we gasped out, "Do it!"

"It is done," he said; "she was going around a corner; I have turned her
back; it has changed her career."

"Then what will happen, Satan?"

"It is happening now.  She is having words with Fischer, the weaver.  In
his anger Fischer will straightway do what he would not have done but for
this accident.  He was present when she stood over her child's body and
uttered those blasphemies."

"What will he do?"

"He is doing it now--betraying her.  In three days she will go to the
stake."

We could not speak; we were frozen with horror, for if we had not meddled
with her career she would have been spared this awful fate.  Satan
noticed these thoughts, and said:

"What you are thinking is strictly human-like--that is to say, foolish.
The woman is advantaged.  Die when she might, she would go to heaven.  By
this prompt death she gets twenty-nine years more of heaven than she is
entitled to, and escapes twenty-nine years of misery here."

A moment before we were bitterly making up our minds that we would ask no
more favors of Satan for friends of ours, for he did not seem to know any
way to do a person a kindness but by killing him; but the whole aspect of
the case was changed now, and we were glad of what we had done and full
of happiness in the thought of it.

After a little I began to feel troubled about Fischer, and asked,
timidly, "Does this episode change Fischer's life-scheme, Satan?"

"Change it?  Why, certainly.  And radically.  If he had not met Frau
Brandt awhile ago he would die next year, thirty-four years of age.  Now
he will live to be ninety, and have a pretty prosperous and comfortable
life of it, as human lives go."

We felt a great joy and pride in what we had done for Fischer, and were
expecting Satan to sympathize with this feeling; but he showed no sign
and this made us uneasy.  We waited for him to speak, but he didn't; so,
to assuage our solicitude we had to ask him if there was any defect in
Fischer's good luck.  Satan considered the question a moment, then said,
with some hesitation:

"Well, the fact is, it is a delicate point.  Under his several former
possible life-careers he was going to heaven."

We were aghast.  "Oh, Satan! and under this one--"

"There, don't be so distressed.  You were sincerely trying to do him a
kindness; let that comfort you."

"Oh, dear, dear, that cannot comfort us.  You ought to have told us what
we were doing, then we wouldn't have acted so."

But it made no impression on him.  He had never felt a pain or a sorrow,
and did not know what they were, in any really informing way.  He had no
knowledge of them except theoretically--that is to say, intellectually.
And of course that is no good.  One can never get any but a loose and
ignorant notion of such things except by experience.  We tried our best
to make him comprehend the awful thing that had been done and how we were
compromised by it, but he couldn't seem to get hold of it.  He said he
did not think it important where Fischer went to; in heaven he would not
be missed, there were "plenty there."  We tried to make him see that he
was missing the point entirely; that Fischer, and not other people, was
the proper one to decide about the importance of it; but it all went for
nothing; he said he did not care for Fischer--there were plenty more
Fischers.

The next minute Fischer went by on the other side of the way, and it made
us sick and faint to see him, remembering the doom that was upon him, and
we the cause of it.  And how unconscious he was that anything had
happened to him!  You could see by his elastic step and his alert manner
that he was well satisfied with himself for doing that hard turn for poor
Frau Brandt.  He kept glancing back over his shoulder expectantly.  And,
sure enough, pretty soon Frau Brandt followed after, in charge of the
officers and wearing jingling chains.  A mob was in her wake, jeering and
shouting, "Blasphemer and heretic!" and some among them were neighbors
and friends of her happier days.  Some were trying to strike her, and the
officers were not taking as much trouble as they might to keep them from
it.

"Oh, stop them, Satan!" It was out before we remembered that he could not
interrupt them for a moment without changing their whole after-lives.  He
puffed a little puff toward them with his lips and they began to reel and
stagger and grab at the empty air; then they broke apart and fled in
every direction, shrieking, as if in intolerable pain.  He had crushed a
rib of each of them with that little puff.  We could not help asking if
their life-chart was changed.

"Yes, entirely.  Some have gained years, some have lost them.  Some few
will profit in various ways by the change, but only that few."

We did not ask if we had brought poor Fischer's luck to any of them.  We
did not wish to know.  We fully believed in Satan's desire to do us
kindnesses, but we were losing confidence in his judgment.  It was at
this time that our growing anxiety to have him look over our life-charts
and suggest improvements began to fade out and give place to other
interests.

For a day or two the whole village was a chattering turmoil over Frau
Brandt's case and over the mysterious calamity that had overtaken the
mob, and at her trial the place was crowded.  She was easily convicted of
her blasphemies, for she uttered those terrible words again and said she
would not take them back.  When warned that she was imperiling her life,
she said they could take it in welcome, she did not want it, she would
rather live with the professional devils in perdition than with these
imitators in the village.  They accused her of breaking all those ribs by
witchcraft, and asked her if she was not a witch?  She answered
scornfully:

"No.  If I had that power would any of you holy hypocrites be alive five
minutes?  No; I would strike you all dead.  Pronounce your sentence and
let me go; I am tired of your society."

So they found her guilty, and she was excommunicated and cut off from the
joys of heaven and doomed to the fires of hell; then she was clothed in a
coarse robe and delivered to the secular arm, and conducted to the
market-place, the bell solemnly tolling the while.  We saw her chained to
the stake, and saw the first film of blue smoke rise on the still air.
Then her hard face softened, and she looked upon the packed crowd in
front of her and said, with gentleness:

"We played together once, in long-agone days when we were innocent little
creatures.  For the sake of that, I forgive you."

We went away then, and did not see the fires consume her, but we heard
the shrieks, although we put our fingers in our ears.  When they ceased
we knew she was in heaven, notwithstanding the excommunication; and we
were glad of her death and not sorry that we had brought it about.

One day, a little while after this, Satan appeared again.  We were always
watching out for him, for life was never very stagnant when he was by.
He came upon us at that place in the woods where we had first met him.
Being boys, we wanted to be entertained; we asked him to do a show for
us.

"Very well," he said; "would you like to see a history of the progress of
the human race?--its development of that product which it calls
civilization?"

We said we should.

So, with a thought, he turned the place into the Garden of Eden, and we
saw Abel praying by his altar; then Cain came walking toward him with his
club, and did not seem to see us, and would have stepped on my foot if I
had not drawn it in.  He spoke to his brother in a language which we did
not understand; then he grew violent and threatening, and we knew what
was going to happen, and turned away our heads for the moment; but we
heard the crash of the blows and heard the shrieks and the groans; then
there was silence, and we saw Abel lying in his blood and gasping out his
life, and Cain standing over him and looking down at him, vengeful and
unrepentant.

Then the vision vanished, and was followed by a long series of unknown
wars, murders, and massacres.  Next we had the Flood, and the Ark tossing
around in the stormy waters, with lofty mountains in the distance showing
veiled and dim through the rain.  Satan said:

"The progress of your race was not satisfactory.  It is to have another
chance now."

The scene changed, and we saw Noah overcome with wine.

Next, we had Sodom and Gomorrah, and "the attempt to discover two or
three respectable persons there," as Satan described it.  Next, Lot and
his daughters in the cave.

Next came the Hebraic wars, and we saw the victors massacre the survivors
and their cattle, and save the young girls alive and distribute them
around.

Next we had Jael; and saw her slip into the tent and drive the nail into
the temple of her sleeping guest; and we were so close that when the
blood gushed out it trickled in a little, red stream to our feet, and we
could have stained our hands in it if we had wanted to.

Next we had Egyptian wars, Greek wars, Roman wars, hideous drenchings of
the earth with blood; and we saw the treacheries of the Romans toward the
Carthaginians, and the sickening spectacle of the massacre of those brave
people.  Also we saw Caesar invade Britain--"not that those barbarians
had done him any harm, but because he wanted their land, and desired to
confer the blessings of civilization upon their widows and orphans," as
Satan explained.

Next, Christianity was born.  Then ages of Europe passed in review before
us, and we saw Christianity and Civilization march hand in hand through
those ages, "leaving famine and death and desolation in their wake, and
other signs of the progress of the human race," as Satan observed.

And always we had wars, and more wars, and still other wars--all over
Europe, all over the world.  "Sometimes in the private interest of royal
families," Satan said, "sometimes to crush a weak nation; but never a war
started by the aggressor for any clean purpose--there is no such war in
the history of the race."

"Now," said Satan, "you have seen your progress down to the present, and
you must confess that it is wonderful--in its way.  We must now exhibit
the future."

He showed us slaughters more terrible in their destruction of life, more
devastating in their engines of war, than any we had seen.

"You perceive," he said, "that you have made continual progress.  Cain
did his murder with a club; the Hebrews did their murders with javelins
and swords; the Greeks and Romans added protective armor and the fine
arts of military organization and generalship; the Christian has added
guns and gunpowder; a few centuries from now he will have so greatly
improved the deadly effectiveness of his weapons of slaughter that all
men will confess that without Christian civilization war must have
remained a poor and trifling thing to the end of time."

Then he began to laugh in the most unfeeling way, and make fun of the
human race, although he knew that what he had been saying shamed us and
wounded us.  No one but an angel could have acted so; but suffering is
nothing to them; they do not know what it is, except by hearsay.

More than once Seppi and I had tried in a humble and diffident way to
convert him, and as he had remained silent we had taken his silence as a
sort of encouragement; necessarily, then, this talk of his was a
disappointment to us, for it showed that we had made no deep impression
upon him.  The thought made us sad, and we knew then how the missionary
must feel when he has been cherishing a glad hope and has seen it
blighted.  We kept our grief to ourselves, knowing that this was not the
time to continue our work.

Satan laughed his unkind laugh to a finish; then he said: "It is a
remarkable progress.  In five or six thousand years five or six high
civilizations have risen, flourished, commanded the wonder of the world,
then faded out and disappeared; and not one of them except the latest
ever invented any sweeping and adequate way to kill people.  They all did
their best--to kill being the chiefest ambition of the human race and the
earliest incident in its history--but only the Christian civilization has
scored a triumph to be proud of.  Two or three centuries from now it will
be recognized that all the competent killers are Christians; then the
pagan world will go to school to the Christian--not to acquire his
religion, but his guns.  The Turk and the Chinaman will buy those to kill
missionaries and converts with."

By this time his theater was at work again, and before our eyes nation
after nation drifted by, during two or three centuries, a mighty
procession, an endless procession, raging, struggling, wallowing through
seas of blood, smothered in battle-smoke through which the flags glinted
and the red jets from the cannon darted; and always we heard the thunder
of the guns and the cries of the dying.

"And what does it amount to?" said Satan, with his evil chuckle.
"Nothing at all.  You gain nothing; you always come out where you went
in.  For a million years the race has gone on monotonously propagating
itself and monotonously reperforming this dull nonsense--to what end?  No
wisdom can guess!  Who gets a profit out of it?  Nobody but a parcel of
usurping little monarchs and nobilities who despise you; would feel
defiled if you touched them; would shut the door in your face if you
proposed to call; whom you slave for, fight for, die for, and are not
ashamed of it, but proud; whose existence is a perpetual insult to you
and you are afraid to resent it; who are mendicants supported by your
alms, yet assume toward you the airs of benefactor toward beggar; who
address you in the language of master to slave, and are answered in the
language of slave to master; who are worshiped by you with your mouth,
while in your heart--if you have one--you despise yourselves for it.  The
first man was a hypocrite and a coward, qualities which have not yet
failed in his line; it is the foundation upon which all civilizations
have been built.  Drink to their perpetuation!  Drink to their
augmentation!  Drink to--" Then he saw by our faces how much we were
hurt, and he cut his sentence short and stopped chuckling, and his manner
changed.  He said, gently: "No, we will drink one another's health, and
let civilization go.  The wine which has flown to our hands out of space
by desire is earthly, and good enough for that other toast; but throw
away the glasses; we will drink this one in wine which has not visited
this world before."

We obeyed, and reached up and received the new cups as they descended.
They were shapely and beautiful goblets, but they were not made of any
material that we were acquainted with.  They seemed to be in motion, they
seemed to be alive; and certainly the colors in them were in motion.
They were very brilliant and sparkling, and of every tint, and they were
never still, but flowed to and fro in rich tides which met and broke and
flashed out dainty explosions of enchanting color.  I think it was most
like opals washing about in waves and flashing out their splendid fires.
But there is nothing to compare the wine with.  We drank it, and felt a
strange and witching ecstasy as of heaven go stealing through us, and
Seppi's eyes filled and he said worshipingly:

"We shall be there some day, and then--"

He glanced furtively at Satan, and I think he hoped Satan would say,
"Yes, you will be there some day," but Satan seemed to be thinking about
something else, and said nothing.  This made me feel ghastly, for I knew
he had heard; nothing, spoken or unspoken, ever escaped him.  Poor Seppi
looked distressed, and did not finish his remark.  The goblets rose and
clove their way into the sky, a triplet of radiant sundogs, and
disappeared.  Why didn't they stay?  It seemed a bad sign, and depressed
me.  Should I ever see mine again?  Would Seppi ever see his?




Chapter 9

It was wonderful, the mastery Satan had over time and distance.  For him
they did not exist.  He called them human inventions, and said they were
artificialities.  We often went to the most distant parts of the globe
with him, and stayed weeks and months, and yet were gone only a fraction
of a second, as a rule.  You could prove it by the clock.  One day when
our people were in such awful distress because the witch commission were
afraid to proceed against the astrologer and Father Peter's household, or
against any, indeed, but the poor and the friendless, they lost patience
and took to witch-hunting on their own score, and began to chase a born
lady who was known to have the habit of curing people by devilish arts,
such as bathing them, washing them, and nourishing them instead of
bleeding them and purging them through the ministrations of a
barber-surgeon in the proper way.  She came flying down, with the howling
and cursing mob after her, and tried to take refuge in houses, but the
doors were shut in her face.  They chased her more than half an hour, we
following to see it, and at last she was exhausted and fell, and they
caught her.  They dragged her to a tree and threw a rope over the limb,
and began to make a noose in it, some holding her, meantime, and she
crying and begging, and her young daughter looking on and weeping, but
afraid to say or do anything.

They hanged the lady, and I threw a stone at her, although in my heart I
was sorry for her; but all were throwing stones and each was watching his
neighbor, and if I had not done as the others did it would have been
noticed and spoken of.  Satan burst out laughing.

All that were near by turned upon him, astonished and not pleased.  It
was an ill time to laugh, for his free and scoffing ways and his
supernatural music had brought him under suspicion all over the town and
turned many privately against him.  The big blacksmith called attention
to him now, raising his voice so that all should hear, and said:

"What are you laughing at?  Answer!  Moreover, please explain to the
company why you threw no stone."

"Are you sure I did not throw a stone?"

"Yes.  You needn't try to get out of it; I had my eye on you."

"And I--I noticed you!" shouted two others.

"Three witnesses," said Satan: "Mueller, the blacksmith; Klein, the
butcher's man; Pfeiffer, the weaver's journeyman.  Three very ordinary
liars.  Are there any more?"

"Never mind whether there are others or not, and never mind about what
you consider us--three's enough to settle your matter for you.  You'll
prove that you threw a stone, or it shall go hard with you."

"That's so!" shouted the crowd, and surged up as closely as they could to
the center of interest.

"And first you will answer that other question," cried the blacksmith,
pleased with himself for being mouthpiece to the public and hero of the
occasion.  "What are you laughing at?"

Satan smiled and answered, pleasantly: "To see three cowards stoning a
dying lady when they were so near death themselves."

You could see the superstitious crowd shrink and catch their breath,
under the sudden shock.  The blacksmith, with a show of bravado, said:

"Pooh!  What do you know about it?"

"I?  Everything.  By profession I am a fortune-teller, and I read the
hands of you three--and some others--when you lifted them to stone the
woman.  One of you will die to-morrow week; another of you will die
to-night; the third has but five minutes to live--and yonder is the
clock!"

It made a sensation.  The faces of the crowd blanched, and turned
mechanically toward the clock.  The butcher and the weaver seemed smitten
with an illness, but the blacksmith braced up and said, with spirit:

"It is not long to wait for prediction number one.  If it fails, young
master, you will not live a whole minute after, I promise you that."

No one said anything; all watched the clock in a deep stillness which was
impressive.  When four and a half minutes were gone the blacksmith gave a
sudden gasp and clapped his hands upon his heart, saying, "Give me
breath!  Give me room!" and began to sink down.  The crowd surged back,
no one offering to support him, and he fell lumbering to the ground and
was dead.  The people stared at him, then at Satan, then at one another;
and their lips moved, but no words came.  Then Satan said:

"Three saw that I threw no stone.  Perhaps there are others; let them
speak."

It struck a kind of panic into them, and, although no one answered him,
many began to violently accuse one another, saying, "You said he didn't
throw," and getting for reply, "It is a lie, and I will make you eat it!"
And so in a moment they were in a raging and noisy turmoil, and beating
and banging one another; and in the midst was the only indifferent one
--the dead lady hanging from her rope, her troubles forgotten, her spirit
at peace.

So we walked away, and I was not at ease, but was saying to myself, "He
told them he was laughing at them, but it was a lie--he was laughing at
me."

That made him laugh again, and he said, "Yes, I was laughing at you,
because, in fear of what others might report about you, you stoned the
woman when your heart revolted at the act--but I was laughing at the
others, too."

"Why?"

"Because their case was yours."

"How is that?"

"Well, there were sixty-eight people there, and sixty-two of them had no
more desire to throw a stone than you had."

"Satan!"

"Oh, it's true.  I know your race.  It is made up of sheep.  It is
governed by minorities, seldom or never by majorities.  It suppresses its
feelings and its beliefs and follows the handful that makes the most
noise.  Sometimes the noisy handful is right, sometimes wrong; but no
matter, the crowd follows it.  The vast majority of the race, whether
savage or civilized, are secretly kind-hearted and shrink from inflicting
pain, but in the presence of the aggressive and pitiless minority they
don't dare to assert themselves.  Think of it!  One kind-hearted creature
spies upon another, and sees to it that he loyally helps in iniquities
which revolt both of them.  Speaking as an expert, I know that
ninety-nine out of a hundred of your race were strongly against the
killing of witches when that foolishness was first agitated by a handful
of pious lunatics in the long ago.  And I know that even to-day, after
ages of transmitted prejudice and silly teaching, only one person in
twenty puts any real heart into the harrying of a witch.  And yet
apparently everybody hates witches and wants them killed.  Some day a
handful will rise up on the other side and make the most noise--perhaps
even a single daring man with a big voice and a determined front will do
it--and in a week all the sheep will wheel and follow him, and
witch-hunting will come to a sudden end.

"Monarchies, aristocracies, and religions are all based upon that large
defect in your race--the individual's distrust of his neighbor, and his
desire, for safety's or comfort's sake, to stand well in his neighbor's
eye.  These institutions will always remain, and always flourish, and
always oppress you, affront you, and degrade you, because you will always
be and remain slaves of minorities.  There was never a country where the
majority of the people were in their secret hearts loyal to any of these
institutions."

I did not like to hear our race called sheep, and said I did not think
they were.

"Still, it is true, lamb," said Satan.  "Look at you in war--what mutton
you are, and how ridiculous!"

"In war?  How?"

"There has never been a just one, never an honorable one--on the part of
the instigator of the war.  I can see a million years ahead, and this
rule will never change in so many as half a dozen instances.  The loud
little handful--as usual--will shout for the war.  The pulpit will
--warily and cautiously--object--at first; the great, big, dull bulk of
the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should
be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, "It is unjust and
dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it."  Then the handful will
shout louder.  A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason
against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and
be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them,
and presently the anti-war audiences will thin out and lose popularity.
Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the
platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their
secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers--as earlier
--but do not dare to say so.  And now the whole nation--pulpit and all
--will take up the war-cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest
man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease
to open.  Next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame
upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those
conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse
to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince
himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he
enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception."




Chapter 10

Days and days went by now, and no Satan.  It was dull without him.  But
the astrologer, who had returned from his excursion to the moon, went
about the village, braving public opinion, and getting a stone in the
middle of his back now and then when some witch-hater got a safe chance
to throw it and dodge out of sight.  Meantime two influences had been
working well for Marget.  That Satan, who was quite indifferent to her,
had stopped going to her house after a visit or two had hurt her pride,
and she had set herself the task of banishing him from her heart.
Reports of Wilhelm Meidling's dissipation brought to her from time to
time by old Ursula had touched her with remorse, jealousy of Satan being
the cause of it; and so now, these two matters working upon her together,
she was getting a good profit out of the combination--her interest in
Satan was steadily cooling, her interest in Wilhelm as steadily warming.
All that was needed to complete her conversion was that Wilhelm should
brace up and do something that should cause favorable talk and incline
the public toward him again.

The opportunity came now.  Marget sent and asked him to defend her uncle
in the approaching trial, and he was greatly pleased, and stopped
drinking and began his preparations with diligence.  With more diligence
than hope, in fact, for it was not a promising case.  He had many
interviews in his office with Seppi and me, and threshed out our
testimony pretty thoroughly, thinking to find some valuable grains among
the chaff, but the harvest was poor, of course.

If Satan would only come!  That was my constant thought.  He could invent
some way to win the case; for he had said it would be won, so he
necessarily knew how it could be done.  But the days dragged on, and
still he did not come.  Of course I did not doubt that it would be won,
and that Father Peter would be happy for the rest of his life, since
Satan had said so; yet I knew I should be much more comfortable if he
would come and tell us how to manage it.  It was getting high time for
Father Peter to have a saving change toward happiness, for by general
report he was worn out with his imprisonment and the ignominy that was
burdening him, and was like to die of his miseries unless he got relief
soon.

At last the trial came on, and the people gathered from all around to
witness it; among them many strangers from considerable distances.  Yes,
everybody was there except the accused.  He was too feeble in body for
the strain.  But Marget was present, and keeping up her hope and her
spirit the best she could.  The money was present, too.  It was emptied
on the table, and was handled and caressed and examined by such as were
privileged.

The astrologer was put in the witness-box.  He had on his best hat and
robe for the occasion.

QUESTION.  You claim that this money is yours?

ANSWER.  I do.

Q.  How did you come by it?

A.  I found the bag in the road when I was returning from a journey.

Q.  When?

A.  More than two years ago.

Q.  What did you do with it?

A.  I brought it home and hid it in a secret place in my observatory,
intending to find the owner if I could.

Q.  You endeavored to find him?

A.  I made diligent inquiry during several months, but nothing came of
it.

Q.  And then?

A.  I thought it not worth while to look further, and was minded to use
the money in finishing the wing of the foundling-asylum connected with
the priory and nunnery.  So I took it out of its hiding-place and counted
it to see if any of it was missing.  And then--

Q.  Why do you stop?  Proceed.

A.  I am sorry to have to say this, but just as I had finished and was
restoring the bag to its place, I looked up and there stood Father Peter
behind me.

Several murmured, "That looks bad," but others answered, "Ah, but he is
such a liar!"

Q.  That made you uneasy?

A.  No; I thought nothing of it at the time, for Father Peter often came
to me unannounced to ask for a little help in his need.

Marget blushed crimson at hearing her uncle falsely and impudently
charged with begging, especially from one he had always denounced as a
fraud, and was going to speak, but remembered herself in time and held
her peace.

Q.  Proceed.

A.  In the end I was afraid to contribute the money to the
foundling-asylum, but elected to wait yet another year and continue my
inquiries. When I heard of Father Peter's find I was glad, and no
suspicion entered my mind; when I came home a day or two later and
discovered that my own money was gone I still did not suspect until three
circumstances connected with Father Peter's good fortune struck me as
being singular coincidences.

Q.  Pray name them.

A.  Father Peter had found his money in a path--I had found mine in a
road.  Father Peter's find consisted exclusively of gold ducats--mine
also.  Father Peter found eleven hundred and seven ducats--I exactly the
same.

This closed his evidence, and certainly it made a strong impression on
the house; one could see that.

Wilhelm Meidling asked him some questions, then called us boys, and we
told our tale.  It made the people laugh, and we were ashamed.  We were
feeling pretty badly, anyhow, because Wilhelm was hopeless, and showed
it.  He was doing as well as he could, poor young fellow, but nothing was
in his favor, and such sympathy as there was was now plainly not with his
client.  It might be difficult for court and people to believe the
astrologer's story, considering his character, but it was almost
impossible to believe Father Peter's.  We were already feeling badly
enough, but when the astrologer's lawyer said he believed he would not
ask us any questions--for our story was a little delicate and it would be
cruel for him to put any strain upon it--everybody tittered, and it was
almost more than we could bear.  Then he made a sarcastic little speech,
and got so much fun out of our tale, and it seemed so ridiculous and
childish and every way impossible and foolish, that it made everybody
laugh till the tears came; and at last Marget could not keep up her
courage any longer, but broke down and cried, and I was so sorry for her.

Now I noticed something that braced me up.  It was Satan standing
alongside of Wilhelm!  And there was such a contrast!--Satan looked so
confident, had such a spirit in his eyes and face, and Wilhelm looked so
depressed and despondent.  We two were comfortable now, and judged that
he would testify and persuade the bench and the people that black was
white and white black, or any other color he wanted it.  We glanced
around to see what the strangers in the house thought of him, for he was
beautiful, you know--stunning, in fact--but no one was noticing him; so
we knew by that that he was invisible.

The lawyer was saying his last words; and while he was saying them Satan
began to melt into Wilhelm.  He melted into him and disappeared; and then
there was a change, when his spirit began to look out of Wilhelm's eyes.

That lawyer finished quite seriously, and with dignity.  He pointed to
the money, and said:

"The love of it is the root of all evil.  There it lies, the ancient
tempter, newly red with the shame of its latest victory--the dishonor of
a priest of God and his two poor juvenile helpers in crime.  If it could
but speak, let us hope that it would be constrained to confess that of
all its conquests this was the basest and the most pathetic."

He sat down.  Wilhelm rose and said:

"From the testimony of the accuser I gather that he found this money in a
road more than two years ago.  Correct me, sir, if I misunderstood you."

The astrologer said his understanding of it was correct.

"And the money so found was never out of his hands thenceforth up to a
certain definite date--the last day of last year.  Correct me, sir, if I
am wrong."

The astrologer nodded his head.  Wilhelm turned to the bench and said:

"If I prove that this money here was not that money, then it is not his?"

"Certainly not; but this is irregular.  If you had such a witness it was
your duty to give proper notice of it and have him here to--" He broke
off and began to consult with the other judges.  Meantime that other
lawyer got up excited and began to protest against allowing new witnesses
to be brought into the case at this late stage.

The judges decided that his contention was just and must be allowed.

"But this is not a new witness," said Wilhelm.  "It has already been
partly examined.  I speak of the coin."

"The coin?  What can the coin say?"

"It can say it is not the coin that the astrologer once possessed.  It
can say it was not in existence last December.  By its date it can say
this."

And it was so!  There was the greatest excitement in the court while that
lawyer and the judges were reaching for coins and examining them and
exclaiming.  And everybody was full of admiration of Wilhelm's brightness
in happening to think of that neat idea.  At last order was called and
the court said:

"All of the coins but four are of the date of the present year.  The
court tenders its sincere sympathy to the accused, and its deep regret
that he, an innocent man, through an unfortunate mistake, has suffered
the undeserved humiliation of imprisonment and trial.  The case is
dismissed."

So the money could speak, after all, though that lawyer thought it
couldn't.  The court rose, and almost everybody came forward to shake
hands with Marget and congratulate her, and then to shake with Wilhelm
and praise him; and Satan had stepped out of Wilhelm and was standing
around looking on full of interest, and people walking through him every
which way, not knowing he was there.  And Wilhelm could not explain why
he only thought of the date on the coins at the last moment, instead of
earlier; he said it just occurred to him, all of a sudden, like an
inspiration, and he brought it right out without any hesitation, for,
although he didn't examine the coins, he seemed, somehow, to know it was
true.  That was honest of him, and like him; another would have pretended
he had thought of it earlier, and was keeping it back for a surprise.

He had dulled down a little now; not much, but still you could notice
that he hadn't that luminous look in his eyes that he had while Satan was
in him.  He nearly got it back, though, for a moment when Marget came and
praised him and thanked him and couldn't keep him from seeing how proud
she was of him.  The astrologer went off dissatisfied and cursing, and
Solomon Isaacs gathered up the money and carried it away.  It was Father
Peter's for good and all, now.

Satan was gone.  I judged that he had spirited himself away to the jail
to tell the prisoner the news; and in this I was right.  Marget and the
rest of us hurried thither at our best speed, in a great state of
rejoicing.

Well, what Satan had done was this: he had appeared before that poor
prisoner, exclaiming, "The trial is over, and you stand forever disgraced
as a thief--by verdict of the court!"

The shock unseated the old man's reason.  When we arrived, ten minutes
later, he was parading pompously up and down and delivering commands to
this and that and the other constable or jailer, and calling them Grand
Chamberlain, and Prince This and Prince That, and Admiral of the Fleet,
Field Marshal in Command, and all such fustian, and was as happy as a
bird.  He thought he was Emperor!

Marget flung herself on his breast and cried, and indeed everybody was
moved almost to heartbreak.  He recognized Marget, but could not
understand why she should cry.  He patted her on the shoulder and said:

"Don't do it, dear; remember, there are witnesses, and it is not becoming
in the Crown Princess.  Tell me your trouble--it shall be mended; there
is nothing the Emperor cannot do."  Then he looked around and saw old
Ursula with her apron to her eyes.  He was puzzled at that, and said,
"And what is the matter with you?"

Through her sobs she got out words explaining that she was distressed to
see him--"so."  He reflected over that a moment, then muttered, as if to
himself: "A singular old thing, the Dowager Duchess--means well, but is
always snuffling and never able to tell what it is about.  It is because
she doesn't know."  His eyes fell on Wilhelm.  "Prince of India," he
said, "I divine that it is you that the Crown Princess is concerned
about.  Her tears shall be dried; I will no longer stand between you; she
shall share your throne; and between you you shall inherit mine.  There,
little lady, have I done well?  You can smile now--isn't it so?"

He petted Marget and kissed her, and was so contented with himself and
with everybody that he could not do enough for us all, but began to give
away kingdoms and such things right and left, and the least that any of
us got was a principality.  And so at last, being persuaded to go home,
he marched in imposing state; and when the crowds along the way saw how
it gratified him to be hurrahed at, they humored him to the top of his
desire, and he responded with condescending bows and gracious smiles, and
often stretched out a hand and said, "Bless you, my people!"

As pitiful a sight as ever I saw.  And Marget, and old Ursula crying all
the way.

On my road home I came upon Satan, and reproached him with deceiving me
with that lie.  He was not embarrassed, but said, quite simply and
composedly:

"Ah, you mistake; it was the truth.  I said he would be happy the rest of
his days, and he will, for he will always think he is the Emperor, and
his pride in it and his joy in it will endure to the end.  He is now, and
will remain, the one utterly happy person in this empire."

"But the method of it, Satan, the method!  Couldn't you have done it
without depriving him of his reason?"

It was difficult to irritate Satan, but that accomplished it.

"What an ass you are!" he said.  "Are you so unobservant as not to have
found out that sanity and happiness are an impossible combination?  No
sane man can be happy, for to him life is real, and he sees what a
fearful thing it is.  Only the mad can be happy, and not many of those.
The few that imagine themselves kings or gods are happy, the rest are no
happier than the sane.  Of course, no man is entirely in his right mind
at any time, but I have been referring to the extreme cases.  I have
taken from this man that trumpery thing which the race regards as a Mind;
I have replaced his tin life with a silver-gilt fiction; you see the
result--and you criticize!  I said I would make him permanently happy,
and I have done it.  I have made him happy by the only means possible to
his race--and you are not satisfied!" He heaved a discouraged sigh, and
said, "It seems to me that this race is hard to please."

There it was, you see.  He didn't seem to know any way to do a person a
favor except by killing him or making a lunatic out of him.  I
apologized, as well as I could; but privately I did not think much of his
processes--at that time.

Satan was accustomed to say that our race lived a life of continuous and
uninterrupted self-deception.  It duped itself from cradle to grave with
shams and delusions which it mistook for realities, and this made its
entire life a sham.  Of the score of fine qualities which it imagined it
had and was vain of, it really possessed hardly one.  It regarded itself
as gold, and was only brass.  One day when he was in this vein he
mentioned a detail--the sense of humor.  I cheered up then, and took
issue.  I said we possessed it.

"There spoke the race!" he said; "always ready to claim what it hasn't
got, and mistake its ounce of brass filings for a ton of gold-dust.  You
have a mongrel perception of humor, nothing more; a multitude of you
possess that.  This multitude see the comic side of a thousand low-grade
and trivial things--broad incongruities, mainly; grotesqueries,
absurdities, evokers of the horse-laugh.  The ten thousand high-grade
comicalities which exist in the world are sealed from their dull vision.
Will a day come when the race will detect the funniness of these
juvenilities and laugh at them--and by laughing at them destroy them?
For your race, in its poverty, has unquestionably one really effective
weapon--laughter.  Power, money, persuasion, supplication, persecution
--these can lift at a colossal humbug--push it a little--weaken it a
little, century by century; but only laughter can blow it to rags and
atoms at a blast.  Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand.
You are always fussing and fighting with your other weapons.  Do you ever
use that one?  No; you leave it lying rusting.  As a race, do you ever
use it at all?  No; you lack sense and the courage."

We were traveling at the time and stopped at a little city in India and
looked on while a juggler did his tricks before a group of natives.  They
were wonderful, but I knew Satan could beat that game, and I begged him
to show off a little, and he said he would.  He changed himself into a
native in turban and breech-cloth, and very considerately conferred on me
a temporary knowledge of the language.

The juggler exhibited a seed, covered it with earth in a small
flower-pot, then put a rag over the pot; after a minute the rag began to
rise; in ten minutes it had risen a foot; then the rag was removed and a
little tree was exposed, with leaves upon it and ripe fruit.  We ate the
fruit, and it was good.  But Satan said:

"Why do you cover the pot?  Can't you grow the tree in the sunlight?"

"No," said the juggler; "no one can do that."

"You are only an apprentice; you don't know your trade.  Give me the
seed.  I will show you."  He took the seed and said, "What shall I raise
from it?"

"It is a cherry seed; of course you will raise a cherry."

"Oh no; that is a trifle; any novice can do that.  Shall I raise an
orange-tree from it?"

"Oh yes!" and the juggler laughed.

"And shall I make it bear other fruits as well as oranges?"

"If God wills!" and they all laughed.

Satan put the seed in the ground, put a handful of dust on it, and said,
"Rise!"

A tiny stem shot up and began to grow, and grew so fast that in five
minutes it was a great tree, and we were sitting in the shade of it.
There was a murmur of wonder, then all looked up and saw a strange and
pretty sight, for the branches were heavy with fruits of many kinds and
colors--oranges, grapes, bananas, peaches, cherries, apricots, and so on.
Baskets were brought, and the unlading of the tree began; and the people
crowded around Satan and kissed his hand, and praised him, calling him
the prince of jugglers.  The news went about the town, and everybody came
running to see the wonder--and they remembered to bring baskets, too.
But the tree was equal to the occasion; it put out new fruits as fast as
any were removed; baskets were filled by the score and by the hundred,
but always the supply remained undiminished.  At last a foreigner in
white linen and sun-helmet arrived, and exclaimed, angrily:

"Away from here!  Clear out, you dogs; the tree is on my lands and is my
property."

The natives put down their baskets and made humble obeisance.  Satan made
humble obeisance, too, with his fingers to his forehead, in the native
way, and said:

"Please let them have their pleasure for an hour, sir--only that, and no
longer.  Afterward you may forbid them; and you will still have more
fruit than you and the state together can consume in a year."

This made the foreigner very angry, and he cried out, "Who are you, you
vagabond, to tell your betters what they may do and what they mayn't!"
and he struck Satan with his cane and followed this error with a kick.

The fruits rotted on the branches, and the leaves withered and fell.  The
foreigner gazed at the bare limbs with the look of one who is surprised,
and not gratified.  Satan said:

"Take good care of the tree, for its health and yours are bound together.
It will never bear again, but if you tend it well it will live long.
Water its roots once in each hour every night--and do it yourself; it
must not be done by proxy, and to do it in daylight will not answer.  If
you fail only once in any night, the tree will die, and you likewise.  Do
not go home to your own country any more--you would not reach there; make
no business or pleasure engagements which require you to go outside your
gate at night--you cannot afford the risk; do not rent or sell this
place--it would be injudicious."

The foreigner was proud and wouldn't beg, but I thought he looked as if
he would like to.  While he stood gazing at Satan we vanished away and
landed in Ceylon.

I was sorry for that man; sorry Satan hadn't been his customary self and
killed him or made him a lunatic.  It would have been a mercy.  Satan
overheard the thought, and said:

"I would have done it but for his wife, who has not offended me.  She is
coming to him presently from their native land, Portugal.  She is well,
but has not long to live, and has been yearning to see him and persuade
him to go back with her next year.  She will die without knowing he can't
leave that place."

"He won't tell her?"

"He?  He will not trust that secret with any one; he will reflect that it
could be revealed in sleep, in the hearing of some Portuguese guest's
servant some time or other."

"Did none of those natives understand what you said to him?"

"None of them understood, but he will always be afraid that some of them
did.  That fear will be torture to him, for he has been a harsh master to
them.  In his dreams he will imagine them chopping his tree down.  That
will make his days uncomfortable--I have already arranged for his
nights."

It grieved me, though not sharply, to see him take such a malicious
satisfaction in his plans for this foreigner.

"Does he believe what you told him, Satan?"

"He thought he didn't, but our vanishing helped.  The tree, where there
had been no tree before--that helped.  The insane and uncanny variety of
fruits--the sudden withering--all these things are helps.  Let him think
as he may, reason as he may, one thing is certain, he will water the
tree.  But between this and night he will begin his changed career with a
very natural precaution--for him."

"What is that?"

"He will fetch a priest to cast out the tree's devil.  You are such a
humorous race--and don't suspect it."

"Will he tell the priest?"

"No.  He will say a juggler from Bombay created it, and that he wants the
juggler's devil driven out of it, so that it will thrive and be fruitful
again.  The priest's incantations will fail; then the Portuguese will
give up that scheme and get his watering-pot ready."

"But the priest will burn the tree.  I know it; he will not allow it to
remain."

"Yes, and anywhere in Europe he would burn the man, too.  But in India
the people are civilized, and these things will not happen.  The man will
drive the priest away and take care of the tree."

I reflected a little, then said, "Satan, you have given him a hard life,
I think."

"Comparatively.  It must not be mistaken for a holiday."

We flitted from place to place around the world as we had done before,
Satan showing me a hundred wonders, most of them reflecting in some way
the weakness and triviality of our race.  He did this now every few days
--not out of malice--I am sure of that--it only seemed to amuse and
interest him, just as a naturalist might be amused and interested by a
collection of ants.




Chapter 11

For as much as a year Satan continued these visits, but at last he came
less often, and then for a long time he did not come at all.  This always
made me lonely and melancholy.  I felt that he was losing interest in our
tiny world and might at any time abandon his visits entirely.  When one
day he finally came to me I was overjoyed, but only for a little while.
He had come to say good-by, he told me, and for the last time.  He had
investigations and undertakings in other corners of the universe, he
said, that would keep him busy for a longer period than I could wait for
his return.

"And you are going away, and will not come back any more?"

"Yes," he said.  "We have comraded long together, and it has been
pleasant--pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each
other any more."

"In this life, Satan, but in another?  We shall meet in another, surely?"

Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is
no other."

A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a
vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words
might be true--even must be true.

"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"

"No.  How could I?  But if it can only be true--"

"It is true."

A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before
it could issue in words, and I said, "But--but--we have seen that future
life--seen it in its actuality, and so--"

"It was a vision--it had no existence."

I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me.
"A vision?--a vi--"

"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."

It was electrical.  By God!  I had had that very thought a thousand times
in my musings!

"Nothing exists; all is a dream.  God--man--the world--the sun, the moon,
the wilderness of stars--a dream, all a dream; they have no existence.
Nothing exists save empty space--and you!"

"I!"

"And you are not you--you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a
thought.  I myself have no existence; I am but a dream--your dream,
creature of your imagination.  In a moment you will have realized this,
then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the
nothingness out of which you made me....

"I am perishing already--I am failing--I am passing away.  In a little
while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless
solitudes without friend or comrade forever--for you will remain a
thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable,
indestructible.  But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself
and set you free.  Dream other dreams, and better!

"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago--centuries, ages,
eons, ago!--for you have existed, companionless, through all the
eternities.  Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that
your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction!
Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane--like all
dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet
preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy,
yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life,
yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness
unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels
painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and
maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell--mouths
mercy and invented hell--mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied
by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other
people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them
all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the
responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it
where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine
obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...

"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a
dream.  You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly
creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks--in a
word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it.  The dream-marks
are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.

"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no
universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell.  It is all
a dream--a grotesque and foolish dream.  Nothing exists but you.  And you
are but a thought--a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless
thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he
had said was true.






A FABLE

Once upon a time an artist who had painted a small and very beautiful
picture placed it so that he could see it in the mirror.  He said, "This
doubles the distance and softens it, and it is twice as lovely as it was
before."

The animals out in the woods heard of this through the housecat, who was
greatly admired by them because he was so learned, and so refined and
civilized, and so polite and high-bred, and could tell them so much which
they didn't know before, and were not certain about afterward.  They were
much excited about this new piece of gossip, and they asked questions, so
as to get at a full understanding of it.  They asked what a picture was,
and the cat explained.

"It is a flat thing," he said; "wonderfully flat, marvelously flat,
enchantingly flat and elegant.  And, oh, so beautiful!"

That excited them almost to a frenzy, and they said they would give the
world to see it.  Then the bear asked:

"What is it that makes it so beautiful?"

"It is the looks of it," said the cat.

This filled them with admiration and uncertainty, and they were more
excited than ever.  Then the cow asked:

"What is a mirror?"

"It is a hole in the wall," said the cat.  "You look in it, and there you
see the picture, and it is so dainty and charming and ethereal and
inspiring in its unimaginable beauty that your head turns round and
round, and you almost swoon with ecstasy."

The ass had not said anything as yet; he now began to throw doubts.
He said there had never been anything as beautiful as this before, and
probably wasn't now.  He said that when it took a whole basketful of
sesquipedalian adjectives to whoop up a thing of beauty, it was time for
suspicion.

It was easy to see that these doubts were having an effect upon the
animals, so the cat went off offended.  The subject was dropped for a
couple of days, but in the meantime curiosity was taking a fresh start,
aid there was a revival of interest perceptible.  Then the animals
assailed the ass for spoiling what could possibly have been a pleasure to
them, on a mere suspicion that the picture was not beautiful, without any
evidence that such was the case.  The ass was not, troubled; he was calm,
and said there was one way to find out who was in the right, himself or
the cat: he would go and look in that hole, and come back and tell what
he found there.  The animals felt relieved and grateful, and asked him to
go at once--which he did.

But he did not know where he ought to stand; and so, through error, he
stood between the picture and the mirror.  The result was that the
picture had no chance, and didn't show up.  He returned home and said:

"The cat lied.  There was nothing in that hole but an ass.  There wasn't
a sign of a flat thing visible.  It was a handsome ass, and friendly, but
just an ass, and nothing more."

The elephant asked:

"Did you see it good and clear?  Were you close to it?"

"I saw it good and clear, O Hathi, King of Beasts.  I was so close that I
touched noses with it."

"This is very strange," said the elephant; "the cat was always truthful
before--as far as we could make out.  Let another witness try.  Go,
Baloo, look in the hole, and come and report."

So the bear went.  When he came back, he said:

"Both the cat and the ass have lied; there was nothing in the hole but a
bear."

Great was the surprise and puzzlement of the animals.  Each was now
anxious to make the test himself and get at the straight truth.  The
elephant sent them one at a time.

First, the cow.  She found nothing in the hole but a cow.

The tiger found nothing in it but a tiger.

The lion found nothing in it but a lion.

The leopard found nothing in it but a leopard.

The camel found a camel, and nothing more.

Then Hathi was wroth, and said he would have the truth, if he had to go
and fetch it himself.  When he returned, he abused his whole subjectry
for liars, and was in an unappeasable fury with the moral and mental
blindness of the cat.  He said that anybody but a near-sighted fool could
see that there was nothing in the hole but an elephant.

                            MORAL, BY THE CAT

You can find in a text whatever you bring, if you will stand between it
and the mirror of your imagination.  You may not see your ears, but they
will be there.






HUNTING THE DECEITFUL TURKEY

When I was a boy my uncle and his big boys hunted with the rifle, the
youngest boy Fred and I with a shotgun--a small single-barrelled shotgun
which was properly suited to our size and strength; it was not much
heavier than a broom.  We carried it turn about, half an hour at a time.
I was not able to hit anything with it, but I liked to try.  Fred and I
hunted feathered small game, the others hunted deer, squirrels, wild
turkeys, and such things.  My uncle and the big boys were good shots.
They killed hawks and wild geese and such like on the wing; and they
didn't wound or kill squirrels, they stunned them.  When the dogs treed a
squirrel, the squirrel would scamper aloft and run out on a limb and
flatten himself along it, hoping to make himself invisible in that way
--and not quite succeeding.  You could see his wee little ears sticking
up. You couldn't see his nose, but you knew where it was.  Then the
hunter, despising a "rest" for his rifle, stood up and took offhand aim
at the limb and sent a bullet into it immediately under the squirrel's
nose, and down tumbled the animal, unwounded,  but unconscious; the dogs
gave him a shake and he was dead.  Sometimes when the distance was great
and the wind not accurately allowed for, the bullet would hit the
squirrel's head; the dogs could do as they pleased with that one--the
hunter's pride was hurt, and he wouldn't allow it to go into the gamebag.

In the first faint gray of the dawn the stately wild turkeys would be
stalking around in great flocks, and ready to be sociable and answer
invitations to come and converse with other excursionists of their kind.
The hunter concealed himself and imitated the turkey-call by sucking the
air through the leg-bone of a turkey which had previously answered a call
like that and lived only just long enough to regret it.  There is nothing
that furnishes a perfect turkey-call except that bone.  Another of
Nature's treacheries, you see.  She is full of them; half the time she
doesn't know which she likes best--to betray her child or protect it.
In the case of the turkey she is badly mixed: she gives it a bone to be
used in getting it into trouble, and she also furnishes it with a trick
for getting itself out of the trouble again.  When a mamma-turkey answers
an invitation and finds she has made a mistake in accepting it, she does
as the mamma-partridge does--remembers a previous engagement--and goes
limping and scrambling away, pretending to be very lame; and at the same
time she is saying to her not-visible children, "Lie low, keep still,
don't expose yourselves; I shall be back as soon as I have beguiled this
shabby swindler out of the country."

When a person is ignorant and confiding, this immoral device can have
tiresome results.  I followed an ostensibly lame turkey over a
considerable part of the United States one morning, because I believed in
her and could not think she would deceive a mere boy, and one who was
trusting her and considering her honest.  I had the single-barrelled
shotgun, but my idea was to catch her alive.  I often got within rushing
distance of her, and then made my rush; but always, just as I made my
final plunge and put my hand down where her back had been, it wasn't
there; it was only two or three inches from there and I brushed the
tail-feathers as I landed on my stomach--a very close call, but still not
quite close enough; that is, not close enough for success, but just close
enough to convince me that I could do it next time.  She always waited
for me, a little piece away, and let on to be resting and greatly
fatigued; which was a lie, but I believed it, for I still thought her
honest long after I ought to have begun to doubt her, suspecting that
this was no way for a high-minded bird to be acting.  I followed, and
followed, and followed, making my periodical rushes, and getting up and
brushing the dust off, and resuming the voyage with patient confidence;
indeed, with a confidence which grew, for I could see by the change of
climate and vegetation that we were getting up into the high latitudes,
and as she always looked a little tireder and a little more discouraged
after each rush, I judged that I was safe to win, in the end, the
competition being purely a matter of staying power and the advantage
lying with me from the start because she was lame.

Along in the afternoon I began to feel fatigued myself.  Neither of us
had had any rest since we first started on the excursion, which was
upwards of ten hours before, though latterly we had paused awhile after
rushes, I letting on to be thinking about something else; but neither of
us sincere, and both of us waiting for the other to call game but in no
real hurry about it, for indeed those little evanescent snatches of rest
were very grateful to the feelings of us both; it would naturally be so,
skirmishing along like that ever since dawn and not a bite in the
meantime; at least for me, though sometimes as she lay on her side
fanning herself with a wing and praying for strength to get out of this
difficulty a grasshopper happened along whose time had come, and that was
well for her, and fortunate, but I had nothing--nothing the whole day.

More than once, after I was very tired, I gave up taking her alive, and
was going to shoot her, but I never did it, although it was my right, for
I did not believe I could hit her; and besides, she always stopped and
posed, when I raised the gun, and this made me suspicious that she knew
about me and my marksmanship, and so I did not care to expose myself to
remarks.

I did not get her, at all.  When she got tired of the game at last, she
rose from almost under my hand and flew aloft with the rush and whir of a
shell and lit on the highest limb of a great tree and sat down and
crossed her legs and smiled down at me, and seemed gratified to see me so
astonished.

I was ashamed, and also lost; and it was while wandering the woods
hunting for myself that I found a deserted log cabin and had one of the
best meals there that in my life-days I have eaten.  The weed-grown
garden was full of ripe tomatoes, and I ate them ravenously, though I had
never liked them before.  Not more than two or three times since have I
tasted anything that was so delicious as those tomatoes.  I surfeited
myself with them, and did not taste another one until I was in middle
life.  I can eat them now, but I do not like the look of them.  I suppose
we have all experienced a surfeit at one time or another.  Once, in
stress of circumstances, I ate part of a barrel of sardines, there being
nothing else at hand, but since then I have always been able to get along
without sardines.






THE McWILLIAMSES AND THE BURGLAR ALARM

The conversation drifted smoothly and pleasantly along from weather to
crops, from crops to literature, from literature to scandal, from scandal
to religion; then took a random jump, and landed on the subject of
burglar alarms.  And now for the first time Mr. McWilliams showed
feeling.  Whenever I perceive this sign on this man's dial, I comprehend
it, and lapse into silence, and give him opportunity to unload his heart.
Said he, with but ill-controlled emotion:

"I do not go one single cent on burglar alarms, Mr. Twain--not a single
cent--and I will tell you why.  When we were finishing our house, we
found we had a little cash left over, on account of the plumber not
knowing it.  I was for enlightening the heathen with it, for I was always
unaccountably down on the heathen somehow; but Mrs. McWilliams said no,
let's have a burglar alarm.  I agreed to this compromise.  I will explain
that whenever I want a thing, and Mrs. McWilliams wants another thing,
and we decide upon the thing that Mrs. McWilliams wants--as we always do
--she calls that a compromise.  Very well: the man came up from New York
and put in the alarm, and charged three hundred and twenty-five dollars
for it, and said we could sleep without uneasiness now.  So we did for
awhile--say a month.  Then one night we smelled smoke, and I was advised
to get up and see what the matter was.  I lit a candle, and started
toward the stairs, and met a burglar coming out of a room with a basket
of tinware, which he had mistaken for solid silver in the dark.  He was
smoking a pipe.  I said, 'My friend, we do not allow smoking in this
room.'  He said he was a stranger, and could not be expected to know the
rules of the house: said he had been in many houses just as good as this
one, and it had never been objected to before.  He added that as far as
his experience went, such rules had never been considered to apply to
burglars, anyway.

"I said: 'Smoke along, then, if it is the custom, though I think that the
conceding of a privilege to a burglar which is denied to a bishop is a
conspicuous sign of the looseness of the times.  But waiving all that,
what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and
clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?'

"He looked confused and ashamed, and said, with embarrassment: 'I beg a
thousand pardons.  I did not know you had a burglar alarm, else I would
have rung it.  I beg you will not mention it where my parents may hear of
it, for they are old and feeble, and such a seemingly wanton breach of
the hallowed conventionalities of our Christian civilization might all
too rudely sunder the frail bridge which hangs darkling between the pale
and evanescent present and the solemn great deeps of the eternities.  May
I trouble you for a match?'

"I said: 'Your sentiments do you honor, but if you will allow me to say
it, metaphor is not your best hold.  Spare your thigh; this kind light
only on the box, and seldom there, in fact, if my experience may be
trusted.  But to return to business: how did you get in here?'

"'Through a second-story window.'

"It was even so.  I redeemed the tinware at pawnbroker's rates, less cost
of advertising, bade the burglar good-night, closed the window after him,
and retired to headquarters to report.  Next morning we sent for the
burglar-alarm man, and he came up and explained that the reason the alarm
did not 'go off' was that no part of the house but the first floor was
attached to the alarm.  This was simply idiotic; one might as well have
no armor on at all in battle as to have it only on his legs.  The expert
now put the whole second story on the alarm, charged three hundred
dollars for it, and went his way.  By and by, one night, I found a
burglar in the third story, about to start down a ladder with a lot of
miscellaneous property.  My first impulse was to crack his head with a
billiard cue; but my second was to refrain from this attention, because
he was between me and the cue rack.  The second impulse was plainly the
soundest, so I refrained, and proceeded to compromise.  I redeemed the
property at former rates, after deducting ten per cent. for use of
ladder, it being my ladder, and, next day we sent down for the expert
once more, and had the third story attached to the alarm, for three
hundred dollars.

"By this time the 'annunciator' had grown to formidable dimensions.  It
had forty-seven tags on it, marked with the names of the various rooms
and chimneys, and it occupied the space of an ordinary wardrobe.  The
gong was the size of a wash-bowl, and was placed above the head of our
bed.  There was a wire from the house to the coachman's quarters in the
stable, and a noble gong alongside his pillow.

"We should have been comfortable now but for one defect.  Every morning
at five the cook opened the kitchen door, in the way of business, and rip
went that gong!  The first time this happened I thought the last day was
come sure.  I didn't think it in bed--no, but out of it--for the first
effect of that frightful gong is to hurl you across the house, and slam
you against the wall, and then curl you up, and squirm you like a spider
on a stove lid, till somebody shuts the kitchen door.  In solid fact,
there is no clamor that is even remotely comparable to the dire clamor
which that gong makes.  Well, this catastrophe happened every morning
regularly at five o'clock, and lost us three hours sleep; for, mind you,
when that thing wakes you, it doesn't merely wake you in spots; it wakes
you all over, conscience and all, and you are good for eighteen hours of
wide-awakeness subsequently--eighteen hours of the very most
inconceivable wide-awakeness that you ever experienced in your life.
A stranger died on our hands one time, aid we vacated and left him in our
room overnight.  Did that stranger wait for the general judgment?  No,
sir; he got up at five the next morning in the most prompt and
unostentatious way.  I knew he would; I knew it mighty well.  He
collected his life-insurance, and lived happy ever after, for there was
plenty of proof as to the perfect squareness of his death.

"Well, we were gradually fading toward a better land, on account of the
daily loss of sleep; so we finally had the expert up again, and he ran a
wire to the outside of the door, and placed a switch there, whereby
Thomas, the butler, always made one little mistake--he switched the alarm
off at night when he went to bed, and switched it on again at daybreak in
the morning, just in time for the cook to open the kitchen door, and
enable that gong to slam us across the house, sometimes breaking a window
with one or the other of us.  At the end of a week we recognized that
this switch business was a delusion and a snare.  We also discovered that
a band of burglars had been lodging in the house the whole time--not
exactly to steal, for there wasn't much left now, but to hide from the
police, for they were hot pressed, and they shrewdly judged that the
detectives would never think of a tribe of burglars taking sanctuary in a
house notoriously protected by the most imposing and elaborate burglar
alarm in America.

"Sent down for the expert again, and this time he struck a most dazzling
idea--he fixed the thing so that opening the kitchen door would take off
the alarm.  It was a noble idea, and he charged accordingly.  But you
already foresee the result.  I switched on the alarm every night at
bed-time, no longer trusting on Thomas's frail memory; and as soon as the
lights were out the burglars walked in at the kitchen door, thus taking
the alarm off without waiting for the cook to do it in the morning.  You
see how aggravatingly we were situated.  For months we couldn't have any
company.  Not a spare bed in the house; all occupied by burglars.

"Finally, I got up a cure of my own.  The expert answered the call, and
ran another ground wire to the stable, and established a switch there, so
that the coachman could put on and take off the alarm.  That worked first
rate, and a season of peace ensued, during which we got to inviting
company once more and enjoying life.

"But by and by the irrepressible alarm invented a new kink.  One winter's
night we were flung out of bed by the sudden music of that awful gong,
and when we hobbled to the annunciator, turned up the gas, and saw the
word 'Nursery' exposed, Mrs. McWilliams fainted dead away, and I came
precious near doing the same thing myself.  I seized my shotgun, and
stood timing the coachman whilst that appalling buzzing went on.  I knew
that his gong had flung him out, too, and that he would be along with his
gun as soon as he could jump into his clothes.  When I judged that the
time was ripe, I crept to the room next the nursery, glanced through the
window, and saw the dim outline of the coachman in the yard below,
standing at present-arms and waiting for a chance.  Then I hopped into
the nursery and fired, and in the same instant the coachman fired at the
red flash of my gun.  Both of us were successful; I crippled a nurse, and
he shot off all my back hair.  We turned up the gas, and telephoned for a
surgeon.  There was not a sign of a burglar, and no window had been
raised.  One glass was absent, but that was where the coachman's charge
had come through.  Here was a fine mystery--a burglar alarm 'going off'
at midnight of its own accord, and not a burglar in the neighborhood!

"The expert answered the usual call, and explained that it was a 'False
alarm.' Said it was easily fixed.  So he overhauled the nursery window,
charged a remunerative figure for it, and departed.

"What we suffered from false alarms for the next three years no
stylographic pen can describe.  During the next three months I always
flew with my gun to the room indicated, and the coachman always sallied
forth with his battery to support me.  But there was never anything to
shoot at--windows all tight and secure.  We always sent down for the
expert next day, and he fixed those particular windows so they would keep
quiet a week or so, and always remembered to send us a bill about like
this:

          Wire ............................$2.15
          Nipple...........................  .75
          Two hours' labor ................ 1.50
          Wax..............................  .47
          Tape.............................  .34
          Screws...........................  .15
          Recharging battery ..............  .98
          Three hours' labor .............. 2.25
          String...........................  .02
          Lard ............................  .66
          Pond's Extract .................. 1.25
          Springs at 50.................... 2.00
          Railroad fares................... 7.25


"At length a perfectly natural thing came about--after we had answered
three or four hundred false alarms--to wit, we stopped answering them.
Yes, I simply rose up calmly, when slammed across the house by the alarm,
calmly inspected the annunciator, took note of the room indicated; and
then calmly disconnected that room from the alarm, and went back to bed
as if nothing had happened.  Moreover, I left that room off permanently,
and did not send for the expert.  Well, it goes without saying that in
the course of time all the rooms were taken off, and the entire machine
was out of service.

"It was at this unprotected time that the heaviest calamity of all
happened.  The burglars walked in one night and carried off the burglar
alarm! yes, sir, every hide and hair of it: ripped it out, tooth and
nail; springs, bells, gongs, battery, and all; they took a hundred and
fifty miles of copper wire; they just cleaned her out, bag and baggage,
and never left us a vestige of her to swear at--swear by, I mean.

"We had a time of it to get her back; but we accomplished it finally, for
money.  The alarm firm said that what we needed now was to have her put
in right--with their new patent springs in the windows to make false
alarms impossible, and their new patent clock attached to take off and
put on the alarm morning and night without human assistance.  That seemed
a good scheme.  They promised to have the whole thing finished in ten
days.  They began work, and we left for the summer.  They worked a couple
of days; then they left for the summer.  After which the burglars moved
in, and began their summer vacation.  When we returned in the fall, the
house was as empty as a beer closet in premises where painters have been
at work.  We refurnished, and then sent down to hurry up the expert.  He
came up and finished the job, and said: 'Now this clock is set to put on
the alarm every night at 10, and take it off every morning at 5:45.  All
you've got to do is to wind her up every week, and then leave her alone
--she will take care of the alarm herself.'

"After that we had a most tranquil season during three months.  The bill
was prodigious, of course, and I had said I would not pay it until the
new machinery had proved itself to be flawless.  The time stipulated was
three months.  So I paid the bill, and the very next day the alarm went
to buzzing like ten thousand bee swarms at ten o'clock in the morning.
I turned the hands around twelve hours, according to instructions, and
this took off the alarm; but there was another hitch at night, and I had
to set her ahead twelve hours once more to get her to put the alarm on
again.  That sort of nonsense went on a week or two, then the expert came
up and put in a new clock.  He came up every three months during the next
three years, and put in a new clock.  But it was always a failure.  His
clocks all had the same perverse defect: they would put the alarm on in
the daytime, and they would not put it on at night; and if you forced it
on yourself, they would take it off again the minute your back was
turned.

"Now there is the history of that burglar alarm--everything just as it
happened; nothing extenuated, and naught set down in malice.  Yes, sir,
--and when I had slept nine years with burglars, and maintained an
expensive burglar alarm the whole time, for their protection, not mine,
and at my sole cost--for not a d---d cent could I ever get THEM to
contribute--I just said to Mrs.  McWilliams that I had had enough of that
kind of pie; so with her full consent I took the whole thing out and
traded it off for a dog, and shot the dog.  I don't know what you think
about it, Mr.  Twain; but I think those things are made solely in the
interest of the burglars.  Yes, sir, a burglar alarm combines in its
person all that is objectionable about a fire, a riot, and a harem, and
at the same time had none of the compensating advantages, of one sort or
another, that customarily belong with that combination.  Good-by: I get
off here."


End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mysterious Stranger and Other
Stories, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)






A DOUBLE BARRELLED DETECTIVE

by Mark Twain



PART I

          "We ought never to do wrong when people are looking."


I

The first scene is in the country, in Virginia; the time, 1880.  There
has been a wedding, between a handsome young man of slender means and a
rich young girl--a case of love at first sight and a precipitate
marriage; a marriage bitterly opposed by the girl's widowed father.

Jacob Fuller, the bridegroom, is twenty-six years old, is of an old but
unconsidered family which had by compulsion emigrated from Sedgemoor, and
for King James's purse's profit, so everybody said--some maliciously the
rest merely because they believed it.  The bride is nineteen and
beautiful.  She is intense, high-strung, romantic, immeasurably proud of
her Cavalier blood, and passionate in her love for her young husband.
For its sake she braved her father's displeasure, endured his reproaches,
listened with loyalty unshaken to his warning predictions and went from
his house without his blessing, proud and happy in the proofs she was
thus giving of the quality of the affection which had made its home in
her heart.

The morning after the marriage there was a sad surprise for her.  Her
husband put aside her proffered caresses, and said:

"Sit down.  I have something to say to you.  I loved you.  That was
before I asked your father to give you to me.  His refusal is not my
grievance--I could have endured that.  But the things he said of me to
you--that is a different matter.  There--you needn't speak; I know quite
well what they were; I got them from authentic sources.  Among other
things he said that my character was written in my face; that I was
treacherous, a dissembler, a coward, and a brute without sense of pity or
compassion: the 'Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it--and 'white-sleeve
badge.'  Any other man in my place would have gone to his house and shot
him down like a dog.  I wanted to do it, and was minded to do it, but a
better thought came to me: to put him to shame; to break his heart; to
kill him by inches.  How to do it?  Through my treatment of you, his
idol!  I would marry you; and then--Have patience.  You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, the young wife suffered all
the humiliations, all the insults, all the miseries that the diligent and
inventive mind of the husband could contrive, save physical injuries
only.  Her strong pride stood by her, and she kept the secret of her
troubles.  Now and then the husband said, "Why don't you go to your
father and tell him?"  Then he invented new tortures, applied them, and
asked again.  She always answered, "He shall never know by my mouth," and
taunted him with his origin; said she was the lawful slave of a scion of
slaves, and must obey, and would--up to that point, but no further; he
could kill her if he liked, but he could not break her; it was not in the
Sedgemoor breed to do it.  At the end of the three months he said, with a
dark significance in his manner, "I have tried all things but one"--and
waited for her reply.  "Try that," she said, and curled her lip in
mockery.

That night he rose at midnight and put on his clothes, then said to her:

"Get up and dress!"

She obeyed--as always, without a word.  He led her half a mile from the
house, and proceeded to lash her to a tree by the side of the public
road; and succeeded, she screaming and struggling.  He gagged her then,
struck her across the face with his cowhide, and set his bloodhounds on
her.  They tore the clothes off her, and she was naked.  He called the
dogs off, and said:

"You will be found--by the passing public.  They will be dropping along
about three hours from now, and will spread the news--do you hear?
Good-by.  You have seen the last of me."

He went away then.  She moaned to herself:

"I shall bear a child--to him!  God grant it may be a boy!"

The farmers released her by and by--and spread the news, which was
natural.  They raised the country with lynching intentions, but the bird
had flown.  The young wife shut herself up in her father's house; he shut
himself up with her, and thenceforth would see no one.  His pride was
broken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day by day, and even his
daughter rejoiced when death relieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.




II

In 1886 a young woman was living in a modest house near a secluded New
England village, with no company but a little boy about five years old.
She did her own work, she discouraged acquaintanceships, and had none.
The butcher, the baker, and the others that served her could tell the
villagers nothing about her further than that her name was Stillman, and
that she called the child Archy.  Whence she came they had not been able
to find out, but they said she talked like a Southerner.  The child had
no playmates and no comrade, and no teacher but the mother.  She taught
him diligently and intelligently, and was satisfied with the results
--even a little proud of them.  One day Archy said:

"Mamma, am I different from other children?"

"Well, I suppose not.  Why?"

"There was a child going along out there and asked me if the postman had
been by and I said yes, and she said how long since I saw him and I said
I hadn't seen him at all, and she said how did I know he'd been by, then,
and I said because I smelt his track on the sidewalk, and she said I was
a dum fool and made a mouth at me.  What did she do that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said to herself, "It's a birth mark!
The gift of the bloodhound is in him."  She snatched the boy to her
breast and hugged him passionately, saying, "God has appointed the way!"
Her eyes were burning with a fierce light, and her breath came short and
quick with excitement.  She said to herself: "The puzzle is solved now;
many a time it has been a mystery to me, the impossible things the child
has done in the dark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said:

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk about the matter."

She went up to her room and took from her dressing-table several small
articles and put them out of sight: a nail-file on the floor under the
bed; a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; a small ivory paper-knife
under the wardrobe.  Then she returned, and said:

"There!  I have left some things which I ought to have brought down."
She named them, and said, "Run up and bring them, dear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soon back again with the
things.

"Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to the bookcase, taken several books
from the bottom shelf, opened each, passed her hand over a page, noting
its number in her memory, then restored them to their places.  Now she
said:

"I have been doing something while you have been gone, Archy.  Do you
think you can find out what it was?"

The boy went to the bookcase and got out the books that had been touched,
and opened them at the pages which had been stroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear.  I have found out that in one way
you are quite different from other people.  You can see in the dark, you
can smell what other people cannot, you have the talents of a bloodhound.
They are good and valuable things to have, but you must keep the matter a
secret.  If people found it out, they would speak of you as an odd child,
a strange child, and children would be disagreeable to you, and give you
nicknames.  In this world one must be like everybody else if he doesn't
want to provoke scorn or envy or jealousy.  It is a great and fine
distinction which has been born to you, and I am glad; but you will keep
it a secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.

All the rest of the day the mother's brain was busy with excited
thinkings; with plans, projects, schemes, each and all of them uncanny,
grim, and dark.  Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a fell light of
their own; lit it with vague fires of hell.  She was in a fever of
unrest; she could not sit, stand, read, sew; there was no relief for her
but in movement.  She tested her boy's gift in twenty ways, and kept
saying to herself all the time, with her mind in the past: "He broke my
father's heart, and night and day all these years I have tried, and all
in vain, to think out a way to break his.  I have found it now--I have
found it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possessed her.  She went on
with her tests; with a candle she traversed the house from garret to
cellar, hiding pins, needles, thimbles, spools, under pillows, under
carpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in the bin; then sent the
little fellow in the dark to find them; which he did, and was happy and
proud when she praised him and smothered him with caresses.

From this time forward life took on a new complexion for her.  She said,
"The future is secure--I can wait, and enjoy the waiting."  The most of
her lost interests revived.  She took up music again, and languages,
drawing, painting, and the other long-discarded delights of her
maidenhood.  She was happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
As the years drifted by she watched the development of her boy, and was
contented with it.  Not altogether, but nearly that.  The soft side of
his heart was larger than the other side of it.  It was his only defect,
in her eyes.  But she considered that his love for her and worship of her
made up for it.  He was a good hater--that was well; but it was a
question if the materials of his hatreds were of as tough and enduring a
quality as those of his friendships--and that was not so well.


The years drifted on.  Archy was become a handsome, shapely, athletic
youth, courteous, dignified, companionable, pleasant in his ways, and
looking perhaps a trifle older than he was, which was sixteen.  One
evening his mother said she had something of grave importance to say to
him, adding that he was old enough to hear it now, and old enough and
possessed of character enough and stability enough to carry out a stern
plan which she had been for years contriving and maturing.  Then she told
him her bitter story, in all its naked atrociousness.  For a while the
boy was paralyzed; then he said:

"I understand.  We are Southerners; and by our custom and nature there is
but one atonement.  I will search him out and kill him."

"Kill him?  No!  Death is release, emancipation; death is a favor.  Do I
owe him favors?  You must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire is my law and my pleasure.
Tell me what to do and I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and she said:

"You will go and find him.  I have known his hiding-place for eleven
years; it cost me five years and more of inquiry, and much money, to
locate it.  He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-to-do.  He lives
in Denver.  His name is Jacob Fuller.  There--it is the first time I have
spoken it since that unforgettable night.  Think!  That name could have
been yours if I had not saved you that shame and furnished you a cleaner
one.  You will drive him from that place; you will hunt him down and
drive him again; and yet again, and again, and again, persistently,
relentlessly, poisoning his life, filling it with mysterious terrors,
loading it with weariness and misery, making him wish for death, and that
he had a suicide's courage; you will make of him another Wandering Jew;
he shall know no rest any more, no peace of mind, no placid sleep; you
shall shadow him, cling to him, persecute him, till you break his heart,
as he broke my father's and mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child.  The preparations are all made; everything is
ready.  Here is a letter of credit; spend freely, there is no lack of
money.  At times you may need disguises.  I have provided them; also some
other conveniences."  She took from the drawer of the typewriter-table
several squares of paper.  They all bore these typewritten words:

                           $10,000 REWARD

It is believed that a certain man who is wanted in an Eastern state
is sojourning here.  In 1880, in the night, he tied his young wife
to a tree by the public road, cut her across the face with a
cowhide, and made his dogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her
naked.  He left her there, and fled the country.  A blood-relative
of hers has searched for him for seventeen years.  Address .  .  .
.  .  .  .  .  .  , .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  , Post-office.
The above reward will be paid in cash to the person who will furnish
the seeker, in a personal interview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquainted yourself with his scent, you will
go in the night and placard one of these upon the building he occupies,
and another one upon the post-office or in some other prominent place.
It will be the talk of the region.  At first you must give him several
days in which to force a sale of his belongings at something approaching
their value.  We will ruin him by and by, but gradually; we must not
impoverish him at once, for that could bring him to despair and injure
his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewritten forms from the drawer
--duplicates--and read one:

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  , .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  , 18.
                                                          .  .  .
To Jacob Fuller:

You have .  .  .  .  .  .  days in which to settle your affairs.
You will not be disturbed during that limit, which will expire at .
.  .  .  .  .  M., on the .  .  .  .  .  .  of .  .  .  .  .  .  .
You must then MOVE ON.  If you are still in the place after the
named hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls, detailing your
crime once more, and adding the date, also the scene of it, with all
names concerned, including your own.  Have no fear of bodily injury
--it will in no circumstances ever be inflicted upon you.  You
brought misery upon an old man, and ruined his life and broke his
heart.  What he suffered, you are to suffer.

"You will add no signature.  He must receive this before he learns of the
reward placard--before he rises in the morning--lest he lose his head and
fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."

"You will need to use these forms only in the beginning--once may be
enough.  Afterward, when you are ready for him to vanish out of a place,
see that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:

              "MOVE ON.  You have .  .  .  .  .  .  days."

"He will obey.  That is sure."




III

Extracts from letters to the mother:

                                              DENVER, April 3, 1897
I have now been living several days in the same hotel with Jacob Fuller.
I have his scent; I could track him through ten divisions of infantry and
find him.  I have often been near him and heard him talk.  He owns a good
mine, and has a fair income from it; but he is not rich.  He learned
mining in a good way--by working at it for wages.  He is a cheerful
creature, and his forty-three years sit lightly upon him; he could pass
for a younger man--say thirty-six or thirty-seven.  He has never married
again--passes himself off for a widower.  He stands well, is liked, is
popular, and has many friends.  Even I feel a drawing toward him--the
paternal blood in me making its claim.  How blind and unreasoning and
arbitrary are some of the laws of nature--the most of them, in fact!  My
task is become hard now--you realize it? you comprehend, and make
allowances?--and the fire of it has cooled, more than I like to confess
to myself, But I will carry it out.  Even with the pleasure paled, the
duty remains, and I will not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I reflect that he
who committed that odious crime is the only one who has not suffered by
it.  The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his character, and in the
change he is happy.  He, the guilty party, is absolved from all
suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with it.  But be comforted
--he shall harvest his share.


                                                  SILVER GULCH, May 19
I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later I slipped
Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave Denver at or
before 11.50 the night of the 14th.

Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then hunted the
town over and found the other one, and stole that.  In this manner he
accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"--that is, he got a
valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it.  And so his
paper--the principal one in the town--had it in glaring type on the
editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our
wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to our
reward on the paper's account!  The journals out here know how to do the
noble thing--when there's business in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat--selected because it afforded a
view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to hear the talk
that went on at his table.  Seventy-five or a hundred people were in the
room, and all discussing that item, and saying they hoped the seeker
would find that rascal and remove the pollution of his presence from the
town--with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave--folded up--in one hand,
and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more than half a pang to
see him.  His cheerfulness was all gone, and he looked old and pinched
and ashy.  And then--only think of the things he had to listen to!
Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends describe him with epithets
and characterizations drawn from the very dictionaries and phrase-books
of Satan's own authorized editions down below.  And more than that, he
had to agree with the verdicts and applaud them.  His applause tasted
bitter in his mouth, though; he could not disguise that from me; and it
was observable that his appetite was gone; he only nibbled; he couldn't
eat.  Finally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and hearing what
this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel.  I hope so."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced around
scared!  He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.

During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in Mexico, and
wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could, and give the
property his personal attention.  He played his cards well; said he would
take $40,000--a quarter in cash, the rest in safe notes; but that as he
greatly needed money on account of his new purchase, he would diminish
his terms for cash in full, He sold out for $30,000.  And then, what do
you think he did?  He asked for greenbacks, and took them, saying the man
in Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head full of crotchets, and
preferred greenbacks to gold or drafts.  People thought it queer, since a
draft on New York could produce greenbacks quite conveniently.  There was
talk of this odd thing, but only for a day; that is as long as any topic
lasts in Denver.

I was watching, all the time.  As soon as the sale was completed and the
money paid--which was on the 11th--I began to stick to Fuller's track
without dropping it for a moment.  That night--no, 12th, for it was a
little past midnight--I tracked him to his room, which was four doors
from mine in the same hall; then I went back and put on my muddy
day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat down in my room in
the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in it, and my door ajar.
For I suspected that the bird would take wing now.  In half an hour an
old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught the familiar whiff, and
followed with my grip, for it was Fuller.  He left the hotel by a side
entrance, and at the corner he turned up an unfrequented street and
walked three blocks in a light rain and a heavy darkness, and got into a
two-horse hack, which of course was waiting for him by appointment.  I
took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk platform behind, and we drove
briskly off.  We drove ten miles, and the hack stopped at a way-station
and was discharged.  Fuller got out and took a seat on a barrow under the
awning, as far as he could get from the light; I went inside, and watched
the ticket-office.  Fuller bought no ticket; I bought none.  Presently
the train came along, and he boarded a car; I entered the same car at the
other end, and came down the aisle and took the seat behind him.  When he
paid the conductor and named his objective point, I dropped back several
seats, while the conductor was changing a bill, and when he came to me I
paid to the same place--about a hundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me a dance.  He traveled here and
there and yonder--always on a general westward trend--but he was not a
woman after the first day.  He was a laborer, like myself, and wore bushy
false whiskers.  His outfit was perfect, and he could do the character
without thinking about it, for he had served the trade for wages.  His
nearest friend could not have recognized him.  At last he located himself
here, the obscurest little mountain camp in Montana; he has a shanty, and
goes out prospecting daily; is gone all day, and avoids society.  I am
living at a miner's boardinghouse, and it is an awful place: the bunks,
the food, the dirt--everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen him but once;
but every night I go over his track and post myself.  As soon as he
engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and telegraphed
that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send for it.  I need
nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I brought that with me.


                                                 SILVER GULCH, June 12
The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think.  I know the
most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it, at least in
my hearing.  Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these conditions.  He
has located a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in the
mountains; it promises very well, and he is working it diligently.  Ah,
but the change in him!  He never smiles, and he keeps quite to himself,
consorting with no one--he who was so fond of company and so cheery only
two months ago.  I have seen him passing along several times recently
--drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from his step, a pathetic figure.
He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him.  Since you insist, I
will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be unhappier than he
already is.  I will go hack to Denver and treat myself to a little season
of comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, and bodily decency; then
I will fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson to move on.


                                                       DENVER, June 19
They miss him here.  They all hope he is prospering in Mexico, and they
do not say it just with their mouths, but out of their hearts.  You know
you can always tell.  I am loitering here overlong, I confess it.  But if
you were in my place you would have charity for me.  Yes, I know what you
will say, and you are right: if I were in your place, and carried your
scalding memories in my heart--

I will take the night train back to-morrow.


                                                   DENVER, June 20
God forgive us, mother, me are hunting the wrong man!  I have not slept
any all night.  I am now awaiting, at dawn, for the morning train--and
how the minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one.  How stupid we have been
not to reflect that the guilty one would never again wear his own name
after that fiendish deed!  The Denver Fuller is four years younger than
the other one; he came here a young widower in '79, aged twenty-one--a
year before you were married; and the documents to prove it are
innumerable.  Last night I talked with familiar friends of his who have
known him from the day of his arrival.  I said nothing, but a few days
from now I will land him in this town again, with the loss upon his mine
made good; and there will be a banquet, and a torch-light procession, and
there will not be any expense on anybody but me.  Do you call this
"gush"?  I am only a boy, as you well know; it is my privilege.  By and
by I shall not be a boy any more.


                                                  SILVER GULCH, July 3
Mother, he is gone!  Gone, and left no trace.  The scent was cold when I
came.  To-day I am out of bed for the first time since.  I wish I were
not a boy; then I could stand shocks better.  They all think he went
west.  I start to-night, in a wagon--two or three hours of that, then I
get a train.  I don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to try to keep
still would be torture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a disguise.  This
means that I may have to search the whole globe to find him.  Indeed it
is what I expect.  Do you see, mother?  It is I that am the Wandering
Jew.  The irony of it!  We arranged that for another.

Think of the difficulties!  And there would be none if I only could
advertise for him.  But if there is any way to do it that would not
frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have tried till
my brains are addled.  "If the gentleman who lately bought a mine in
Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to whom,
mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a mistake; his
forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a loss which he
sustained in a certain matter."  Do you see?  He would think it a trap.
Well, any one would.  If I should say, "It is now known that he was not
the man wanted, but another man--a man who once bore the same name, but
discarded it for good reasons"--would that answer?  But the Denver people
would wake up then and say "Oho!" and they would remember about the
suspicious greenbacks, and say, "Why did he run away if he wasn't the
right man?--it is too thin."  If I failed to find him he would be ruined
there--there where there is no taint upon him now.  You have a better
head than mine.  Help me.

I have one clue, and only one.  I know his handwriting.  If he puts his
new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise it too much,
it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.


                                          SAN FRANCISCO, June 28, 1898
You already know how well I have searched the states from Colorado to the
Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once.  Well, I have had
another close miss.  It was here, yesterday.  I struck his trail, hot, on
the street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel.  That was a costly
mistake; a dog would have gone the other way.  But I am only part dog,
and can get very humanly stupid when excited.  He had been stopping in
that house ten days; I almost know, now, that he stops long nowhere, the
past six or eight months, but is restless and has to keep moving.  I
understand that feeling! and I know what it is to feel it.  He still
uses the name he had registered when I came so near catching him nine
months ago--"James Walker"; doubtless the same he adopted when he fled
from Silver Gulch.  An unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy
names.  I recognized the hand easily, through its slight disguise.  A
square man, and not good at shams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address; didn't say
where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave his address;
had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on foot--a "stingy old
person, and not much loss to the house."  "Old!" I suppose he is, now I
hardly heard; I was there but a moment.  I rushed along his trail, and it
led me to a wharf.  Mother, the smoke of the steamer he had taken was
just fading out on the horizon!  I should have saved half on hour if I
had gone in the right direction at first.  I could have taken a fast tug,
and should have stood a chance of catching that vessel.  She is bound for
Melbourne.


                              HOPE CANYON, CALIFORNIA, October 3, 1900
You have a right to complain.  "A letter a year" is a paucity; I freely
acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is nothing to write
about but failures?  No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart,

I told you--it seems ages ago, now--how I missed him at Melbourne, and
then chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost saw him in Bombay;
traced him all around--to Baroda, Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow, Lahore, Cawnpore,
Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras--oh, everywhere; week after week, month after
month, through the dust and swelter--always approximately on his track,
sometimes close upon him, get never catching him.  And down to Ceylon,
and then to--Never mind; by and by I will write it all out.

I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and back again to
California.  Since then I have been hunting him about the state from the
first of last January down to a month ago.  I feel almost sure he is not
far from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty miles from here, but
there I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now--modified by searchings for the lost trail.  I
was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes coming
uncomfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this little camp are
good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long time back; and their
breezy ways freshen a person up and make him forget his troubles.  I have
been here a month.  I am cabining with a young fellow named "Sammy"
Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother--like me--and
loves her dearly, and writes to her every week--part of which is like me.
He is a timid body, and in the matter of intellect--well, he cannot be
depended upon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he is well liked; he
is good and fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and luxury to sit and
talk with him and have a comradeship again.  I wish "James Walker" could
have it.  He had friends; he liked company.  That brings up that picture
of him, the time that I saw him last.  The pathos of it!  It comes before
me often and often.  At that very time, poor thing, I was girding up my
conscience to make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's in the
community, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black sheep of the
camp--Flint Buckner--and the only man Flint ever talks with or allows to
talk with him.  He says he knows Flint's history, and that it is trouble
that has made him what he is, and so one ought to be as charitable toward
him as one can.  Now none but a pretty large heart could find space to
accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from all I hear about him
outside.  I think that this one detail will give you a better idea of
Sammy's character than any labored-out description I could furnish you of
him.  In one of our talks he said something about like this: "Flint is a
kinsman of mine, and he pours out all his troubles to me--empties his
breast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.  There couldn't be
any unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life had been made up of misery of
mind--he isn't near as old as he looks.  He has lost the feel of
reposefulness and peace--oh, years and years ago!  He doesn't know what
good luck is--never has had any; often says he wishes he was in the other
hell, he is so tired of this one."




IV
           "No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the
            presence of ladies."

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.  The lilacs and
laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing
in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the wingless
wild things that have their homes in the tree-tops and would visit
together; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow
flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the
woodland; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose
upon the swooning atmosphere; far in he empty sky a solitary oesophagus
slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and
the peace of God.

October is the time--1900; Hope Canyon is the place, a silver-mining camp
away down in the Esmeralda region.  It is a secluded spot, high and
remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its occupants to be rich in
metal--a year or two's prospecting will decide that matter one way or the
other.  For inhabitants, the camp has about two hundred miners, one white
woman and child, several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a dozen
vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes, battered plug hats, and
tin-can necklaces.  There are no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper.
The camp has existed but two years; it has made no big strike; the world
is ignorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise wall-like, three thousand
feet, and the long spiral of straggling huts down in its narrow bottom
gets a kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails over at noon.
The village is a couple of miles long; the cabins stand well apart from
each other.  The tavern is the only "frame" house--the only house, one
might say.  It occupies a central position, and is the evening resort of
the population.  They drink there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also
billiards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn places
repaired with court-plaster; there are some cues, but no leathers; some
chipped balls which clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually,
but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a cube of chalk, with
a projecting jag of flint in it; and the man who can score six on a
single break can set up the drinks at the bar's expense.

Flint Buckner's cabin was the last one of the village, going south; his
silver-claim was at the other end of the village, northward, and a little
beyond the last hut in that direction.  He was a sour creature,
unsociable, and had no companionships.  People who had tried to get
acquainted with him had regretted it and dropped him.  His history was
not known.  Some believed that Sammy Hillyer knew it; others said no.
If asked, Hillyer said no, he was not acquainted with it.  Flint had a
meek English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him, whom he treated
roughly, both in public and in private; and of course this lad was
applied to for information, but with no success.  Fetlock Jones--name of
the youth--said that Flint picked him up on a prospecting tramp, and as
he had neither home nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay
and take Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the salary, which was bacon
and beans.  Further than this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now, and under his meek
exterior he was slowly consuming to a cinder with the insults and
humiliations which his master had put upon him.  For the meek suffer
bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, perhaps, than do the manlier
sort, who can burst out and get relief with words or blows when the limit
of endurance has been reached.  Good-hearted people wanted to help
Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried to get him to leave Buckner; but
the boy showed fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't."  Pat Riley
urged him, and said:

"You leave the damned hunks and come with me; don't you be afraid.  I'll
take care of him."

The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but shuddered and said he
"dasn't risk it"; he said Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the
night, and then--"Oh, it makes me sick, Mr. Riley, to think of it."

Others said, "Run away from him; we'll stake you; skip out for the coast
some night."  But all these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt
him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.

The people could not understand this.  The boy's miseries went steadily
on, week after week.  It is quite likely that the people would have
understood if they had known how he was employing his spare time.  He
slept in an out-cabin near Flint's; and there, nights, he nursed his
bruises and his humiliations, and studied and studied over a single
problem--how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be found out.  It was
the only joy he had in life; these hours were the only ones in the
twenty-four which he looked forward to with eagerness and spent in
happiness.

He thought of poison.  No--that would not serve; the inquest would reveal
where it was procured and who had procured it.  He thought of a shot in
the back in a lonely place when Flint would be homeward bound at
midnight--his unvarying hour for the trip.  No--somebody might be near,
and catch him.  He thought of stabbing him in his sleep.  No--he might
strike an inefficient blow, and Flint would seize him.  He examined a
hundred different ways--none of them would answer; for in even the very
obscurest and secretest of them there was always the fatal defect of a
risk, a chance, a possibility that he might be found out.  He would have
none of that.

But he was patient, endlessly patient.  There was no hurry, he said to
himself.  He would never leave Flint till he left him a corpse; there was
no hurry--he would find the way.  It was somewhere, and he would endure
shame and pain and misery until he found it.  Yes, somewhere there was a
way which would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clue to the
murderer--there was no hurry--he would find that way, and then--oh, then,
it would just be good to be alive!  Meantime he would diligently keep up
his reputation for meekness; and also, as always theretofore, he would
allow no one to hear him say a resentful or offensive thing about his
oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned October morning Flint had bought
some things, and he and Fetlock had brought them home to Flint's cabin: a
fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner; a tin can of
blasting-powder, which they placed upon the candle-box; a keg of
blasting-powder, which they placed under Flint's bunk; a huge coil of
fuse, which they hung on a peg.  Fetlock reasoned that Flint's mining
operations had outgrown the pick, and that blasting was about to begin
now.  He had seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the process, but
he had never helped in it.  His conjecture was right--blasting-time had
come.  In the morning the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to get into it and out of
it a short ladder was used.  They descended, and by command Fetlock held
the drill--without any instructions as to the right way to hold it--and
Flint proceeded to strike.  The sledge came down; the drill sprang out of
Fetlock's hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to hold a drill?  Pick it up!
Stand it up!  There--hold fast.  D--you!  I'll teach you!"

At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"

A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up!  You can't lie sniveling there.  Now, then, stick in the fuse
first.  Now put in the powder.  Hold on, hold on!  Are you going to fill
the hole all up?  Of all the sap-headed milksops I--Put in some dirt!
Put in some gravel!  Tamp it down!  Hold on, hold on!  Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!"  He snatched the iron and tamped the charge himself,
meantime cursing and blaspheming like a fiend.  Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away, Fetlock following.
They stood waiting a few minutes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks
burst high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after a little there
was a shower of descending stones; then all was serene again.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked the master.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled another hole, and put
in another charge.

"Look here!  How much fuse are you proposing to waste?  Don't you know
how to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't!  Well, if you don't beat anything I ever saw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:

"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day?  Cut the fuse and light it!"

The trembling creature began:

"If you please, sir, I--"

"You talk back to me?  Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse!  I wish you were in--"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft and ran.  The boy was
aghast.

"Oh, my God!  Help.  Help!  Oh, save me!" he implored.  "Oh, what can I
do!  What can I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could; the sputtering fuse
frightened the voice out of him; his breath stood still; he stood gazing
and impotent; in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be flying
toward the sky torn to fragments.  Then he had an inspiration.  He sprang
at the fuse; severed the inch of it that was left above ground, and was
saved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright, his strength gone; but
he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me!  I knew there was a way, if I would wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the shaft, looking
worried and uneasy, and peered down into it.  He took in the situation;
he saw what had happened.  He lowered the ladder, and the boy dragged
himself weakly up it.  He was very white.  His appearance added something
to Buckner's uncomfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret and
sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from lack of practice:

"It was an accident, you know.  Don't say anything about it to anybody;
I was excited, and didn't notice what I was doing.  You're not looking
well; you've worked enough for to-day; go down to my cabin and eat what
you want, and rest.  It's just an accident, you know, on account of my
being excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he started away; "but I learnt
something, so I don't mind it."

"Damned easy to please!" muttered Buckner, following him with his eye.
"I wonder if he'll tell?  Mightn't he?...  I wish it had killed him."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the matter of resting; he
employed it in work, eager and feverish and happy work.  A thick growth
of chaparral extended down the mountainside clear to Flint's cabin; the
most of Fetlock's labor was done in the dark intricacies of that stubborn
growth; the rest of it was done in his own shanty.  At last all was
complete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell on him, he won't keep
them long, to-morrow.  He will see that I am the same milksop as I always
was--all day and the next.  And the day after to-morrow night there 'll
be an end of him; nobody will ever guess who finished him up nor how it
was done.  He dropped me the idea his own self, and that's odd."




V

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five minutes the new morning will
begin.  The scene is in the tavern billiard-room.  Rough men in rough
clothing, slouch-hats, breeches stuffed into boot-tops, some with vests,
none with coats, are grouped about the boiler-iron stove, which has ruddy
cheeks and is distributing a grateful warmth; the billiard-balls are
clacking; there is no other sound--that is, within; the wind is fitfully
moaning without.  The men look bored; also expectant.  A hulking
broad-shouldered miner, of middle age, with grizzled whiskers, and an
unfriendly eye set in an unsociable face, rises, slips a coil of fuse
upon his arm, gathers up some other personal properties, and departs
without word or greeting to anybody.  It is Flint Buckner.  As the door
closes behind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jake Parker, the blacksmith:
"you can tell when it's twelve just by him leaving, without looking at
your Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I know," said Peter Hawes,
miner.

"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson.
"If I was running this shop I'd make him say something, some time or
other, or vamos the ranch."  This with a suggestive glance at the
barkeeper, who did not choose to see it, since the man under discussion
was a good customer, and went home pretty well set up, every night, with
refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any of you boys ever recollect of
him asking you to take a drink?"

"Him?  Flint Buckner?  Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous general outburst in one
form of words or another from the crowd.  After a brief silence, Pat
Riley, miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss.  And his boy's another one.  I can't make
them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and if they are 15-puzzles how
are you going to rank up that other one?  When it comes to A 1 right-down
solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of them.  Easy--don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it.  Every man but one.  He was the new-comer--Peterson.
He ordered the drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be.  All
answered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery?  Is Archy Stillman a mystery?" said Wells-Fargo's man,
Ferguson.  "Why, the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody wanted to tell him;
everybody began.  But Billy Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to
order, and said one at a time was best.  He distributed the drinks, and
appointed Ferguson to lead.  Ferguson said:

"Well, he's a boy.  And that is just about all we know about him.  You
can pump him till you are tired; it ain't any use; you won't get
anything.  At least about his intentions, or line of business, or where
he's from, and such things as that.  And as for getting at the nature and
get-up of his main big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all.  You can guess till you're black in the face--it's your
privilege--but suppose you do, where do you arrive at?  Nowhere, as near
as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe.  Hearing, maybe.  Instinct, maybe.  Magic, maybe.  Take
your choice--grownups, twenty-five; children and servants, half price.
Now I'll tell you what he can do.  You can start here, and just
disappear; you can go and hide wherever you want to, I don't care where
it is, nor how far--and he'll go straight and put his finger on you."

"You don't mean it!"

"I just do, though.  Weather's nothing to him--elemental conditions is
nothing to him--he don't even take notice of them."

"Oh, come!  Dark?  Rain?  Snow?  Hey?"

"It's all the same to him.  He don't give a damn."

"Oh, say--including fog, per'aps?"

"Fog! he's got an eye 't can plunk through it like a bullet."

"Now, boys, honor bright, what's he giving me?"

"It's a fact!" they all shouted.  "Go on, Wells-Fargo."

"Well, sir, you can leave him here, chatting with the boys, and you can
slip out and go to any cabin in this camp and open a book--yes, sir, a
dozen of them--and take the page in your memory, and he'll start out and
go straight to that cabin and open every one of them books at the right
page, and call it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it.  Now I'll tell you a perfectly wonderful
thing that he done.  The other night he--"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds outside, the door flew open,
and an excited crowd burst in, with the camp's one white woman in the
lead and crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone!  For the love of God help me
to find Archy Stillman; we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:

"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't worry.  He asked for a bed
three hours ago, tuckered out tramping the trails the way he's always
doing, and went up-stairs.  Ham Sandwich, run up and roust him out; he's
in No. 14."

The youth was soon down-stairs and ready.  He asked Mrs. Hogan for
particulars.

"Bless you, dear, there ain't any; I wish there was.  I put her to sleep
at seven in the evening, and when I went in there an hour ago to go to
bed myself, she was gone.  I rushed for your cabin, dear, and you wasn't
there, and I've hunted for you ever since, at every cabin down the gulch,
and now I've come up again, and I'm that distracted and scared and
heart-broke; but, thanks to God, I've found you at last, dear heart,
and you'll find my child.  Come on! come quick!"

"Move right along; I'm with you, madam.  Go to your cabin first."

The whole company streamed out to join the hunt.  All the southern half
of the village was up, a hundred men strong, and waiting outside, a vague
dark mass sprinkled with twinkling lanterns.  The mass fell into columns
by threes and fours to accommodate itself to the narrow road, and strode
briskly along southward in the wake of the leaders.  In a few minutes the
Hogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there's where she was; it's where
I laid her at seven o'clock; but where she is now, God only knows."

"Hand me a lantern," said Archy.  He set it on the hard earth floor and
knelt by it, pretending to examine the ground closely.  "Here's her
track," he said, touching the ground here and there and yonder with his
finger.  "Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their knees and did their best to
see.  One or two thought they discerned something like a track; the
others shook their heads and confessed that the smooth hard surface had
no marks upon it which their eyes were sharp enough to discover.  One
said, "Maybe a child's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't see
how."

Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to the ground, turned
leftward, and moved three steps, closely examining; then said, "I've got
the direction--come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the files following, swaying and bending
in and out with the deep curves of the gorge.  Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched the sagebrush plain, dim,
vast, and vague.  Stillman called a halt, saying, "We mustn't start
wrong, now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground for a matter of twenty yards;
then said, "Come on; it's all right," and gave up the lantern.  In and
out among the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bearing
gradually to the right; then took a new direction and made another great
semicircle; then changed again and moved due west nearly half a mile--and
stopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap.  Hold the lantern.  You can see
where she sat."

But this was in a slick alkali flat which was surfaced like steel, and no
person in the party was quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that
could detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that.  The bereaved
mother fell upon her knees and kissed the spot, lamenting.

"But where is she, then?" some one said.  "She didn't stay here.  We can
see that much, anyway."

Stillman moved about in a circle around the place, with the lantern,
pretending to hunt for tracks.

"Well!" he said presently, in an annoyed tone, "I don't understand it."
He examined again.  "No use.  She was here--that's certain; she never
walked away from here--and that's certain.  It's a puzzle; I can't make
it out."

The mother lost heart then.

"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying beast has got her.  I'll
never see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy.  "We'll find her--don't give up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!" and she seized his hand
and kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in Ferguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place, wasn't it?  Hardly worth while
to come so far, though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well--hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo.  He said, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn't been here?  I tell you
the child has been here!  Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as--"

"All right!" sang out Stillman.  "Come, everybody, and look at this!  It
was right under our noses all the time, and we didn't see it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at the place where the child
was alleged to have rested, and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see
the thing that Archy's finger was resting upon.  There was a pause, then
a several-barreled sigh of disappointment.  Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich
said, in the one breath:

"What is it, Archy?  There's nothing here."

"Nothing?  Do you call that nothing?" and he swiftly traced upon the
ground a form with his finger.  "There--don't you recognize it now?  It's
Injun Billy's track.  He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern.  I've got the direction.  Follow!"

He started on a run, racing in and out among the sage-bushes a matter of
three hundred yards, and disappeared over a sand-wave; the others
struggled after him, caught him up, and found him waiting.  Ten steps
away was a little wickiup, a dim and formless shelter of rags and old
horse-blankets, a dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad.  "It's your privilege to be first."

All followed the sprint she made for the wickiup, and saw, with her, the
picture its interior afforded.  Injun Billy was sitting on the ground;
the child was asleep beside him.  The mother hugged it with a wild
embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the grateful tears running down
her face, and in a choked and broken voice she poured out a golden stream
of that wealth of worshiping endearments which has its home in full
richness nowhere but in the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billy explained.  "She 'sleep out
yonder, ve'y tired--face wet, been cryin', 'spose; fetch her home, feed
her, she heap much hungry--go 'sleep 'gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived rank and hugged him
too, calling him "the angel of God in disguise."  And he probably was in
disguise if he was that kind of an official.  He was dressed for the
character.

At half past one in the morning the procession burst into the village
singing, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," waving its lanterns and
swallowing the drinks that were brought out all along its course.  It
concentrated at the tavern, and made a night of what was left of the
morning.






PART II


I

The next afternoon the village was electrified with an immense sensation.
A grave and dignified foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance
had arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable name upon the
register:

                            SHERLOCK HOLMES

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were
dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest.  A man
passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley,
whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckner's.  At that time Fetlock
Jones seemed to turn sick.  He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock!  The mean luck of it!--that he should come just when..."
He dropped into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But what's the
use of being afraid of him?  Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he
can't detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand and
arranges the clues and hires some fellow to commit it according to
instructions....  Now there ain't going to be any clues this time--so,
what show has he got?  None at all.  No, sir; everything's ready.  If I
was to risk putting it off--No, I won't run any risk like that.  Flint
Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for sure."  Then another trouble
presented itself.  "Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him? for I've got
to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight o'clock."  This was an
awkward matter, and cost him much thought.  But he found a way to beat
the difficulty.  "We'll go for a walk, and I'll leave him in the road a
minute, so that he won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along when you are
preparing the thing.  Yes, that's the safest--I'll take him with me."


Meantime the road in front of the tavern was blocked with villagers
waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the great man.  But he kept his room,
and did not appear.  None but Ferguson, Jake Parker the blacksmith, and
Ham Sandwich had any luck.  These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-baggage lockup, which
looked into the detective's room across a little alleyway ten or twelve
feet wide, ambushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in the
window-blind.  Mr. Holmes's blinds were down; but by and by he raised
them.  It gave the spies a hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find
themselves face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had filled the
world with the fame of his more than human ingenuities.  There he sat
--not a myth, not a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and
almost within touching distance with the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awed voice.  "By gracious!
that's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deep reverence.  "Look at his nose!
look at his eyes!  Intellect?  Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.  "Comes from thought--that's what
it comes from.  Hell! duffers like us don't know what real thought is."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson.  "What we take for thinking is just
blubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo.  And look at that frown--that's deep
thinking--away down, down, forty fathom into the bowels of things.  He's
on the track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it.  Say--look at that awful gravity
--look at that pallid solemness--there ain't any corpse can lay over it."

"No, sir, not for dollars!  And it's his'n by hereditary rights, too;
he's been dead four times a'ready, and there's history for it.  Three
times natural, once by accident.  I've heard say he smells damp and cold,
like a grave.  And he--"

"'Sh!  Watch him!  There--he's got his thumb on the bump on the near
corner of his forehead, and his forefinger on the off one.  His
think-works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other shirt."

"That's so.  And now he's gazing up toward heaven and stroking his
mustache slow, and--"

"Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his clues together on his
left fingers with his right finger.  See? he touches the forefinger--now
middle finger--now ring-finger--"

"Stuck!"

"Look at him scowl!  He can't seem to make out that clue.  So he--"

"See him smile!--like a tiger--and tally off the other fingers like
nothing!  He's got it, boys; he's got it sure!"

"Well, I should say!  I'd hate to be in that man's place that he's
after."

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down with his back to the
spies, and proceeded to write.  The spies withdrew their eyes from the
peep-holes, lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfortable
smoke and talk.  Ferguson said, with conviction:

"Boys, it's no use talking, he's a wonder!  He's got the signs of it all
over him."

"You hain't ever said a truer word than that, Wells-Fargo," said Jake
Parker.  "Say, wouldn't it 'a' been nuts if he'd a-been here last night?"

"Oh, by George, but wouldn't it!" said Ferguson.  "Then we'd have seen
scientific work.  Intellect--just pure intellect--away up on the upper
levels, dontchuknow.  Archy is all right, and it don't become anybody to
belittle him, I can tell you.  But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp
as an owl's, as near as I can make it out just a grand natural animal
talent, no more, no less, and prime as far as it goes, but no intellect
in it, and for awfulness and marvelousness no more to be compared to what
this man does than--than--Why, let me tell you what he'd have done.  He'd
have stepped over to Hogan's and glanced--just glanced, that's all--at
the premises, and that's enough.  See everything?  Yes, sir, to the last
little detail; and he'll know more about that place than the Hogans would
know in seven years.  Next, he would sit down on the bunk, just as ca'm,
and say to Mrs. Hogan--Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs. Hogan.  I'll
ask the questions; you answer them."

"All right; go on."

"'Madam, if you please--attention--do not let your mind wander.  Now,
then--sex of the child?'

"'Female, your Honor.'

"'Um--female.  Very good, very good.  Age?'

"'Turned six, your Honor.'

"'Um--young, weak--two miles.  Weariness will overtake it then.  It will
sink down and sleep.  We shall find it two miles away, or less.  Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed.' You see, boys, he knows a
clue when he sees it, when it wouldn't mean a dern thing to anybody else.
'Stockings, madam?  Shoes?'

"'Yes, your Honor--both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps?  Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor.  And kip.'

"'Um--kip.  This complicates the matter.  However, let it go--we shall
manage.  Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good.  Snip me a bit from the bed blanket, please.  Ah, thanks.
Part wool--foreign make.  Very well.  A snip from some garment of the
child's, please.  Thanks.  Cotton.  Shows wear.  An excellent clue,
excellent.  Pass me a pallet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so kind.
Thanks, many thanks.  Ah, admirable, admirable!  Now we know where we
are, I think.' You see, boys, he's got all the clues he wants now; he
don't need anything more.  Now, then, what does this Extraordinary Man
do?  He lays those snips and that dirt out on the table and leans over
them on his elbows, and puts them together side by side and studies them
--mumbles to himself, 'Female'; changes them around--mumbles, 'Six years
old'; changes them this way and that--again mumbles: 'Five teeth
--one a-coming--Catholic--yarn--cotton--kip--damn that kip.'  Then he
straightens up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands through his
hair--plows and plows, muttering, 'Damn that kip!'  Then he stands up and
frowns, and begins to tally off his clues on his fingers--and gets stuck
at the ring-finger.  But only just a minute--then his face glares all up
in a smile like a house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a couple of you, and go
down to Injun Billy's and fetch the child--the rest of you go 'long home
to bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And he bows like the
Matterhorn, and pulls out for the tavern.  That's his style, and the
Only--scientific, intellectual--all over in fifteen minutes--no poking
around all over the sage-brush range an hour and a half in a mass-meeting
crowd for him, boys--you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.  "Wells-Fargo, you've got
him down to a dot.  He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books.  By George, I can just see him--can't you, boys?"

"You bet you!  It's just a photograft, that's what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success, and grateful.  He sat
silently enjoying his happiness a little while, then he murmured, with a
deep awe in his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham Sandwich said, reverently:

"Not all at one time, I reckon."




VII

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were groping their way past
Flint Buckner's cabin in the frosty gloom.  They were Sherlock Holmes and
his nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said Fetlock, "while I run to my
cabin; I won't be gone a minute."

He asked for something--the uncle furnished it--then he disappeared in
the darkness, but soon returned, and the talking-walk was resumed.  By
nine o'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.  They worked their way
through the billiard-room, where a crowd had gathered in the hope of
getting a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man.  A royal cheer was raised.
Mr. Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a series of courtly bows, and
as he was passing out his nephew said to the assemblage:

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do, gentlemen, that 'll keep him till
twelve or one; but he'll be down again then, or earlier if he can, and
hopes some of you'll be left to take a drink with him."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys!  Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes,
the greatest man that ever lived!" shouted Ferguson.  "Hip, hip, hip--"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!  Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the feeling the boys put
into their welcome.  Up-stairs the uncle reproached the nephew gently,
saying:

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do you, uncle?  Well, then,
don't you put on any exclusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all.  The
boys admire you; but if you was to leave without taking a drink with
them, they'd set you down for a snob.  And besides, you said you had home
talk enough in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise--the uncle acknowledged it.  The boy was wise
in another detail which he did not mention--except to himself: "Uncle and
the others will come handy--in the way of nailing an alibi where it can't
be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three hours.  Then, about
midnight, Fetlock stepped down-stairs and took a position in the dark a
dozen steps from the tavern, and waited.  Five minutes later Flint
Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-room and almost brushed him as
he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy.  He continued to himself, looking after
the shadowy form: "Good-by--good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you called
my mother a--well, never mind what: it's all right, now; you're taking
your last walk, friend."

He went musing back into the tavern.  "From now till one is an hour.
We'll spend it with the boys; it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-room, which was jammed with
eager and admiring miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun
began.  Everybody was happy; everybody was complimentary; the ice was
soon broken, songs, anecdotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant
minutes flew.  At six minutes to one, when the jollity was at its
highest--

BOOM!!

There was silence instantly.  The deep sound came rolling and rumbling
frown peak to peak up the gorge, then died down, and ceased.  The spell
broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door, saying:

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said, "It's away down the gorge; I saw
the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon--Holmes, Fetlock, Archy Stillman,
everybody.  They made the mile in a few minutes.  By the light of a
lantern they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint Buckner's
cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige remained, not a rag nor a
splinter.  Nor any sign of Flint.  Search-parties sought here and there
and yonder, and presently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true.  Fifty yards down the gulch they had found him--that is,
they had found a crushed and lifeless mass which represented him.
Fetlock Jones hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair.  Ham Sandwich, foreman of the
jury, handed up the verdict, which was phrased with a certain unstudied
literary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit: that "deceased came
to his death by his own act or some other person or persons unknown to
this jury not leaving any family or similar effects behind but his cabin
which was blown away and God have mercy on his soul amen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd, for the storm-center of
interest was there--Sherlock Holmes.  The miners stood silent and
reverent in a half-circle, inclosing a large vacant space which included
the front exposure of the site of the late premises.  In this
considerable space the Extraordinary Man was moving about, attended by
his nephew with a lantern.  With a tape he took measurements of the cabin
site; of the distance from the wall of chaparral to the road; of the
height of the chaparral bushes; also various other measurements.  He
gathered a rag here, a splinter there, and a pinch of earth yonder,
inspected them profoundly, and preserved them.  He took the "lay" of the
place with a pocket-compass, allowing two seconds for magnetic variation.
He took the time (Pacific) by his watch, correcting it for local time.
He paced off the distance from the cabin site to the corpse, and
corrected that for tidal differentiation.  He took the altitude with a
pocket-aneroid, and the temperature with a pocket-thermometer.  Finally
he said, with a stately bow:

"It is finished.  Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, and the crowd fell into his
wake, earnestly discussing and admiring the Extraordinary Man, and
interlarding guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and who the author
of it might he.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here--hey, boys?" said Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Ham Sandwich.  "It 'll go
all over the world; you mark my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker, the blacksmith.  "It 'll boom this camp.
Ain't it so, Wells-Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion--if it's any sign of how I think about it,
I can tell you this: yesterday I was holding the Straight Flush claim at
two dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that can get it at sixteen
to-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo!  It's the grandest luck a new camp ever
struck.  Say, did you see him collar them little rags and dirt and
things?  What an eye!  He just can't overlook a clue--'tain't in him."

"That's so.  And they wouldn't mean a thing to anybody else; but to him,
why, they're just a book--large print at that."

"Sure's you're born!  Them odds and ends have got their little old
secret, and they think there ain't anybody can pull it; but, land! when
he sets his grip there they've got to squeal, and don't you forget it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here to roust out the child;
this is a bigger thing, by a long sight.  Yes, sir, and more tangled up
and scientific and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out this way.  Glad?  'George!
it ain't any name for it.  Dontchuknow, Archy could 've learnt something
if he'd had the nous to stand by and take notice of how that man works
the system.  But no; he went poking up into the chaparral and just missed
the whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself.  Well, Archy's young.  He'll know
better one of these days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out a world of unsatisfying
conjecture.  Various men were mentioned as possibilities, but one by one
they were discarded as not being eligible.  No one but young Hillyer had
been intimate with Flint Buckner; no one had really had a quarrel with
him; he had affronted every man who had tried to make up to him, although
not quite offensively enough to require bloodshed.  There was one name
that was upon every tongue from the start, but it was the last to get
utterance--Fetlock Jones's.  It was Pat Riley that mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all thought of him, because
he had a million rights to kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain
duty to do it.  But all the same there's two things we can't get around:
for one thing, he hasn't got the sand; and for another, he wasn't
anywhere near the place when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat.  "He was there in the billiard-room with us when
it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before it happened."

"It's so.  And lucky for him, too.  He'd have been suspected in a minute
if it hadn't been for that."




III

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its furniture save one
six-foot pine table and a chair.  This table was against one end of the
room; the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, imposing,
impressive, sat in the chair.  The public stood.  The room was full.  The
tobacco-smoke was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to command additional silence; held
it in the air a few moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with "Um-ums," nods of the
head, and so on.  By this process he learned all about Flint Buckner,
his character, conduct, and habits, that the people were able to tell
him.  It thus transpired that the Extraordinary Man's nephew was the only
person in the camp who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the witness, and asked, languidly:

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where the lad Fetlock Jones was
at the time of the explosion?"

A thunderous response followed:

"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah.  And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah.  It is about--about--well, about how far might it be to the scene of
the explosions"

"All of a mile!"

"Ah.  It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but--"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts of "By jiminy, but he's
chain-lightning!" and "Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped his blushing face
in pathetic shame.  The inquisitor resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection with the case" (laughter)
"having been disposed of, let us now call the eye-witnesses of the
tragedy, and listen to what they have to say."

He got out his fragmentary clues and arranged them on a sheet of
cardboard on his knee.  The house held its breath and watched.

"We have the longitude and the latitude, corrected for magnetic
variation, and this gives us the exact location of the tragedy.  We have
the altitude, the temperature, and the degree of humidity prevailing
--inestimably valuable, since they enable us to estimate with precision
the degree of influence which they would exercise upon the mood and
disposition of the assassin at that time of the night."

(Buzz of admiration; muttered remark, "By George, but he's deep.") He
fingered his clues.  "And now let us ask these mute witnesses to speak to
us.

"Here we have an empty linen shot-bag.  What is its message?  This: that
robbery was the motive, not revenge.  What is its further message?
This: that the assassin was of inferior intelligence--shall we say
light-witted, or perhaps approaching that?  How do we know this?  Because
a person of sound intelligence would not have proposed to rob the man
Buckner, who never had much money with him.  But the assassin might have
been a stranger?  Let the bag speak again.  I take from it this article.
It is a bit of silver-bearing quartz.  It is peculiar.  Examine it,
please--you--and you--and you.  Now pass it back, please.  There is but
one lode on this coast which produces just that character and color of
quartz; and that is a lode which crops out for nearly two miles on a
stretch, and in my opinion is destined, at no distant day, to confer upon
its locality a globe-girdling celebrity, and upon its two hundred owners
riches beyond the dreams of avarice.  Name that lode, please."

"The Consolidated Christian Science and Mary Ann!" was the prompt
response.

A wild crash of hurrahs followed, and every man reached for his
neighbor's hand and wrung it, with tears in his eyes; and Wells-Fargo
Ferguson shouted, "The Straight Flush is on the lode, and up she goes to
a hunched and fifty a foot--you hear me!"

When quiet fell, Mr. Holmes resumed:

"We perceive, then, that three facts are established, to wit: the
assassin was approximately light-witted; he was not a stranger; his
motive was robbery, not revenge.  Let us proceed.  I hold in my hand a
small fragment of fuse, with the recent smell of fire upon it.  What is
its testimony?  Taken with the corroborative evidence of the quartz, it
reveals to us that the assassin was a miner.  What does it tell us
further?  This, gentlemen: that the assassination was consummated by
means of an explosive.  What else does it say?  This: that the explosive
was located against the side of the cabin nearest the road--the front
side--for within six feet of that spot I found it.

"I hold in my fingers a burnt Swedish match--the kind one rubs on a
safety-box.  I found it in the road, six hundred and twenty-two feet from
the abolished cabin.  What does it say?  This: that the train was fired
from that point.  What further does it tell us?  This: that the assassin
was left-handed.  How do I know this?  I should not be able to explain to
you, gentlemen, how I know it, the signs being so subtle that only long
experience and deep study can enable one to detect them.  But the signs
are here, and they are reinforced by a fact which you must have often
noticed in the great detective narratives--that all assassins are
left-handed."

"By Jackson, that's so."  said Ham Sandwich, bringing his great hand down
with a resounding slap upon his thigh; "blamed if I ever thought of it
before."

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried several.  "Oh, there can't anything escape him
--look at his eye!"

"Gentlemen, distant as the murderer was from his doomed victim, he did
not wholly escape injury.  This fragment of wood which I now exhibit to
you struck him.  It drew blood.  Wherever he is, he bears the telltale
mark.  I picked it up where he stood when he fired the fatal train,"
He looked out over the house from his high perch, and his countenance
began to darken; he slowly raised his hand, and pointed:

"There stands the assassin!"

For a moment the house was paralyzed with amazement; then twenty voices
burst out with:

"Sammy Hillyer?  Oh, hell, no!  Him?  It's pure foolishness!"

"Take care, gentlemen--be not hasty.  Observe--he has the blood-mark on
his brow."

Hillyer turned white with fright.  He was near to crying.  He turned this
way and that, appealing to every face for help and sympathy; and held out
his supplicating hands toward Holmes and began to plead:

"Don't, oh, don't!  I never did it; I give my word I never did it.  The
way I got this hurt on my forehead was--"

"Arrest him, constable!" cried Holmes.  "I will swear out the warrant."

The constable moved reluctantly forward--hesitated--stopped.

Hillyer broke out with another appeal.  "Oh, Archy, don't let them do it;
it would kill mother!  You know how I got the hurt.  Tell them, and save
me, Archy; save me!"

Stillman worked his way to the front, and said:

"Yes, I'll save you.  Don't be afraid."  Then he said to the house,
"Never mind how he got the hurt; it hasn't anything to do with this case,
and isn't of any consequence."

"God bless you, Archy, for a true friend!"

"Hurrah for Archy!  Go in, boy, and play 'em a knock-down flush to their
two pair 'n' a jack!" shouted the house, pride in their home talent and a
patriotic sentiment of loyalty to it rising suddenly in the public heart
and changing the whole attitude of the situation.

Young Stillman waited for the noise to cease; then he said:

"I will ask Tom Jeffries to stand by that door yonder, and Constable
Harris to stand by the other one here, and not let anybody leave the
room.

"Said and done.  Go on, old man!"

"The criminal is present, I believe.  I will show him to you before long,
in case I am right in my guess.  Now I will tell you all about the
tragedy, from start to finish.  The motive wasn't robbery; it was
revenge.  The murderer wasn't light-witted.  He didn't stand six hundred
and twenty-two feet away.  He didn't get hit with a piece of wood.  He
didn't place the explosive against the cabin.  He didn't bring a shot-bag
with him, and he wasn't left-handed.  With the exception of these errors,
the distinguished guest's statement of the case is substantially
correct."

A comfortable laugh rippled over the house; friend nodded to friend, as
much as to say, "That's the word, with the bark on it.  Good lad, good
boy.  He ain't lowering his flag any!"

The guest's serenity was not disturbed.  Stillman resumed:

"I also have some witnesses; and I will presently tell you where you can
find some more."  He held up a piece of coarse wire; the crowd craned
their necks to see.  "It has a smooth coating of melted tallow on it.
And here is a candle which is burned half-way down.  The remaining half
of it has marks cut upon it an inch apart.  Soon I will tell you where I
found these things.  I will now put aside reasonings, guesses, the
impressive hitchings of odds and ends of clues together, and the other
showy theatricals of the detective trade, and tell you in a plain,
straightforward way just how this dismal thing happened."

He paused a moment, for effect--to allow silence and suspense to
intensify and concentrate the house's interest; then he went on:

"The assassin studied out his plan with a good deal of pains.  It was a
good plan, very ingenious, and showed an intelligent mind, not a feeble
one.  It was a plan which was well calculated to ward off all suspicion
from its inventor.  In the first place, he marked a candle into spaces an
inch apart, and lit it and timed it.  He found it took three hours to
burn four inches of it.  I tried it myself for half an hour, awhile ago,
up-stairs here, while the inquiry into Flint Buckner's character and ways
was being conducted in this room, and I arrived in that way at the rate
of a candle's consumption when sheltered from the wind.  Having proved
his trial candle's rate, he blew it out--I have already shown it to you
--and put his inch-marks on a fresh one.

"He put the fresh one into a tin candlestick.  Then at the five-hour mark
he bored a hole through the candle with a red-hot wire.  I have already
shown you the wire, with a smooth coat of tallow on it--tallow that had
been melted and had cooled.

"With labor--very hard labor, I should say--he struggled up through the
stiff chaparral that clothes the steep hillside back of Flint Buckner's
place, tugging an empty flour-barrel with him.  He placed it in that
absolutely secure hiding-place, and in the bottom of it he set the
candlestick.  Then he measured off about thirty-five feet of fuse--the
barrel's distance from the back of the cabin.  He bored a hole in the
side of the barrel--here is the large gimlet he did it with.  He went on
and finished his work; and when it was done, one end of the fuse was in
Buckner's cabin, and the other end, with a notch chipped in it to expose
the powder, was in the hole in the candle--timed to blow the place up at
one o'clock this morning, provided the candle was lit about eight o'clock
yesterday evening--which I am betting it was--and provided there was an
explosive in the cabin and connected with that end of the fuse--which I
am also betting there was, though I can't prove it.  Boys, the barrel is
there in the chaparral, the candle's remains are in it in the tin stick;
the burnt-out fuse is in the gimlet-hole, the other end is down the hill
where the late cabin stood.  I saw them all an hour or two ago, when the
Professor here was measuring off unimplicated vacancies and collecting
relics that hadn't anything to do with the case."

He paused.  The house drew a long, deep breath, shook its strained cords
and muscles free and burst into cheers.  "Dang him!" said Ham Sandwich,
"that's why he was snooping around in the chaparral, instead of picking
up points out of the P'fessor's game.  Looky here--he ain't no fool,
boys."

"No, sir!  Why, great Scott--"

But Stillman was resuming:

"While we were out yonder an hour or two ago, the owner of the gimlet and
the trial candle took them from a place where he had concealed them--it
was not a good place--and carried them to what he probably thought was a
better one, two hundred yards up in the pine woods, and hid them there,
covering them over with pine needles.  It was there that I found them.
The gimlet exactly fits the hole in the barrel.  And now--"

The Extraordinary Man interrupted him.  He said, sarcastically:

"We have had a very pretty fairy tale, gentlemen--very pretty indeed.
Now I would like to ask this young man a question or two."

Some of the boys winced, and Ferguson said:

"I'm afraid Archy's going to catch it now."

The others lost their smiles and sobered down.  Mr. Holmes said:

"Let us proceed to examine into this fairy tale in a consecutive and
orderly way--by geometrical progression, so to speak--linking detail to
detail in a steadily advancing and remorselessly consistent and
unassailable march upon this tinsel toy fortress of error, the dream
fabric of a callow imagination.  To begin with, young sir, I desire to
ask you but three questions at present--at present.  Did I understand you
to say it was your opinion that the supposititious candle was lighted at
about eight o'clock yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir--about eight."

"Could you say exactly eight?"

"Well, no, I couldn't be that exact."

"Um.  If a person had been passing along there just about that time, he
would have been almost sure to encounter that assassin, do you think?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Thank you, that is all.  For the present.  I say, all for the present."

"Dern him, he's laying for Archy," said Ferguson.

"It's so," said Ham Sandwich.  "I don't like the look of it."

Stillman said, glancing at the guest, "I was along there myself at
half-past eight--no, about nine."

"In-deed?  This is interesting--this is very interesting.  Perhaps you
encountered the assassin?"

"No, I encountered no one."

"Ah.  Then--if you will excuse the remark--I do not quite see the
relevancy of the information."

"It has none.  At present.  I say it has none--at present."

He paused.  Presently he resumed: "I did not encounter the assassin, but
I am on his track, I am sure, for I believe he is in this room.  I will
ask you all to pass one by one in front of me--here, where there is a
good light--so that I can see your feet."

A buzz of excitement swept the place, and the march began, the guest
looking on with an iron attempt at gravity which was not an unqualified
success.  Stillman stooped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed down
intently at each pair of feet as it passed.  Fifty men tramped
monotonously by--with no result.  Sixty.  Seventy.  The thing was
beginning to look absurd.  The guest remarked, with suave irony:

"Assassins appear to be scarce this evening."

The house saw the humor if it, and refreshed itself with a cordial laugh.
Ten or twelve more candidates tramped by--no, danced by, with airy and
ridiculous capers which convulsed the spectators--then suddenly Stillman
put out his hand and said:

"This is the assassin!"

"Fetlock Jones, by the great Sanhedrim!" roared the crowd; and at once
let fly a pyrotechnic explosion and dazzle and confusion of stirring
remarks inspired by the situation.

At the height of the turmoil the guest stretched out his hand, commanding
peace.  The authority of a great name and a great personality laid its
mysterious compulsion upon the house, and it obeyed.  Out of the panting
calm which succeeded, the guest spoke, saying, with dignity and feeling:

"This is serious.  It strikes at an innocent life.  Innocent beyond
suspicion!  Innocent beyond peradventure!  Hear me prove it; observe how
simple a fact can brush out of existence this witless lie.  Listen.  My
friends, that lad was never out of my sight yesterday evening at any
time!"

It made a deep impression.  Men turned their eyes upon Stillman with
grave inquiry in them.  His face brightened, and he said:

"I knew there was another one!" He stepped briskly to the table and
glanced at the guest's feet, then up at his face, and said: "You were
with him!  You were not fifty steps from him when he lit the candle that
by and by fired the powder!"  (Sensation.)  "And what is more, you
furnished the matches yourself!"

Plainly the guest seemed hit; it looked so to the public.  He opened his
mouth to speak; the words did not come freely.

"This--er--this is insanity--this--"

Stillman pressed his evident advantage home.  He held up a charred match.

"Here is one of them.  I found it in the barrel--and there's another one
there."

The guest found his voice at once.

"Yes--and put them there yourself!"

It was recognized a good shot.  Stillman retorted.

"It is wax--a breed unknown to this camp.  I am ready to be searched for
the box.  Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time--the dullest eye could see it.  He
fumbled with his hands; once or twice his lips moved, but the words did
not come.  The house waited and watched, in tense suspense, the stillness
adding effect to the situation.  Presently Stillman said, gently:

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments; then the guest answered,
in a low voice:

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about the house one voice after
another muttered:

"That settles it!  He's Archy's meat."

What to do now?  Nobody seemed to know.  It was an embarrassing situation
for the moment--merely, of course, because matters had taken such a
sudden and unexpected turn that these unpractised minds were not prepared
for it, and had come to a standstill, like a stopped clock, under the
shock.  But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their heads together and
privately buzzed over this and that and the other proposition.  One of
these propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer upon the
assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint Buckner, and let him go.
But the cooler heads opposed it, pointing out that addled brains in the
Eastern states would pronounce it a scandal, and make no end of foolish
noise about it.  Finally the cool heads got the upper hand, and obtained
general consent to a proposition of their own; their leader then called
the house to order and stated it--to this effect: that Fetlock Jones be
jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried.  Apparently there was nothing further to do now,
and the people were glad, for, privately, they were impatient to get out
and rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that barrel and the
other things were really there or not.

But no--the break-up got a check.  The surprises were not over yet.  For
a while Fetlock Jones had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in the
absorbing excitements which had been following one another so
persistently for some time; but when his arrest and trial were decreed,
he broke out despairingly, and said:

"No! it's no use.  I don't want any jail, I don't want any trial; I've
had all the hard luck I want, and all the miseries.  Hang me now, and let
me out!  It would all come out, anyway--there couldn't anything save me.
He has told it all, just as if he'd been with me and seen it--I don't
know how he found out; and you'll find the barrel and things, and then I
wouldn't have any chance any more.  I killed him; and you'd have done it
too, if he'd treated you like a dog, and you only a boy, and weak and
poor, and not a friend to help you."

"And served him damned well right!" broke in Ham Sandwich.  "Looky here,
boys--"

From the constable: "Order!  Order, gentlemen!"

A voice: "Did your uncle know what you was up to?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he give you the matches, sure enough?"

"Yes, he did; but he didn't know what I wanted them for."

"When you was out on such a business as that, how did you venture to risk
having him along--and him a detective?  How's that?"

The boy hesitated, fumbled with his buttons in an embarrassed way, then
said, shyly:

"I know about detectives, on account of having them in the family; and if
you don't want them to find out about a thing, it's best to have them
around when you do it."

The cyclone of laughter which greeted this native discharge of wisdom did
not modify the poor little waif's embarrassment in any large degree.




IV

      From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merely "Tuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in an unoccupied log cabin, and
left there to await his trial.  Constable Harris provided him with a
couple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good guard over
himself, and promised to look in on him as soon as further supplies
should be due.

Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, out of friendship, and
helped him bury his late relative, the unlamented Buckner, and I acted as
first assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief.  Just as we had
finished our labors a ragged and melancholy stranger, carrying an old
hand-bag, limped by with his head down, and I caught the scent I had
chased around the globe!  It was the odor of Paradise to my perishing
hope!

In a moment I was at his side and had laid a gentle hand upon his
shoulder.  He slumped to the ground as if a stroke of lightning had
withered him in his tracks; and as the boys came running he struggled to
his knees and put up his pleading hands to me, and out of his chattering
jaws he begged me to persecute him no more, and said:

"You have hunted me around the world, Sherlock Holmes, yet God is my
witness I have never done any man harm!"

A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane.  That was my
work, mother!  The tidings of your death can some day repeat the misery I
felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it.  The boys lifted
him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him, and said
the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up and don't
be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take care of him,
and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on him.  They are just
like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys are, when you wake up
the south side of their hearts; yes, and just like so many reckless and
unreasoning children when you wake up the opposite of that muscle.  They
did everything they could think of to comfort him, but nothing succeeded
until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who is a clever strategist, said:

"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you, you needn't worry any
more."

"Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly.

"Because he's dead again."

"Dead!  Dead!  Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck like me.  Is he dead?
On honor, now--is he telling me true, boys?"

"True as you're standing there!" said Ham Sandwich, and they all backed
up the statement in a body.

"They hung him in San Bernardino last week," added Ferguson, clinching
the matter, "whilst he was searching around after you.  Mistook him for
another man.  They're sorry, but they can't help it now."

"They're a-building him a monument," said Ham Sandwich, with the air of a
person who had contributed to it, and knew.

"James Walker" drew a deep sigh--evidently a sigh of relief--and said
nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his countenance
cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little.  We all went to our
cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp could furnish the
materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and I outfitted him
from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and made a comely and
presentable old gentleman of him.  "Old" is the right word, and a pity,
too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon his hair, and the marks
which sorrow and distress have left upon his face; though he is only in
his prime in the matter of years.  While he ate, we smoked and chatted;
and when he was finishing he found his voice at last, and of his own
accord broke out with his personal history.  I cannot furnish his exact
words, but I will come as near it as I can.


                        THE "WRONG MAN'S" STORY

It happened like this: I was in Denver.  I had been there many years;
sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't--but it isn't any
matter.  All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would be exposed
for a horrible crime committed long before--years and years before--in
the East.

I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin of
mine of the same name.  What should I better do?  My head was all
disordered by fear, and I didn't know.  I was allowed very little time
--only one day, I think it was.  I would be ruined if I was published,
and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said.  It is always
the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake they are
sorry, but it is too late--the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, you see.
So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run away until
it blew over and I could come back with my proofs.  Then I escaped in the
night and went a long way off in the mountains somewhere, and lived
disguised and had a false name.

I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made me see
spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear on any
subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up, because my
head hurt so.  It got to be worse and worse; more spirits and more
voices.  They were about me all the time; at first only in the night,
then in the day too.  They were always whispering around my bed and
plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged out,
because I got no good rest.

And then came the worst.  One night the whispers said, "We'll never
manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to the
people."

They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes.  He can be
here in twelve days."

They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy.  But my heart
broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would be to have
him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and tireless energies.

The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the middle of
the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag that had my
money in it--thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are in the bag
there yet.  It was forty days before that man caught up on my track.
I just escaped.  From habit he had written his real name on a tavern
register, but had scratched it out and written "Dagget Barclay" in the
place of it.  But fear gives you a watchful eye and keen, and I read the
true name through the scratches, and fled like a deer.

He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half--the
Pacific states, Australasia, India--everywhere you can think of; then
back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any rest; but
that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left of me is
alive yet.  And I am so tired!  A cruel time he has given me, yet I give
you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.

That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-heat,
be sure of it.  As for me--each word burnt a hole in me where it struck.

We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest and
Hillyer's.  I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as he is
well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabilitate
his fortunes.

The boys gave the old fellow the bone-smashing good-fellowship handshake
of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.

At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich called us
softly out, and said, privately:

"That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has spread
all around, and the camps are up.  They are piling in from everywhere,
and are going to lynch the P'fessor.  Constable Harris is in a dead funk,
and has telephoned the sheriff.  Come along!"

We started on a run.  The others were privileged to feel as they chose,
but in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in time; for I
had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my deeds, as you
can easily believe.  I had heard a good deal about the sheriff, but for
reassurance's sake I asked:

"Can he stop a mob?"

"Can he stop a mob!  Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob!  Well, I should smile!
Ex-desperado--nineteen scalps on his string.  Can he!  Oh, I say!"

As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose faintly
on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along.  Roar
after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and at
last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area in
front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening.  Some brutal
roughs from Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the calmest
man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if any fear of
death was in his British heart, his iron personality was master of it and
no sign of it was allowed to appear.

"Come to a vote, men!" This from one of the Daly gang, Shadbelly Higgins.
"Quick! is it hang, or shoot?"

"Neither!" shouted one of his comrades.  "He'll be alive again in a week;
burning's the only permanency for him."

The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thundercrash of
approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and closed
around him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" They dragged him to the
horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and piled wood and
pine cones around him waist-deep.  Still the strong face did not blench,
and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips.

"A match! fetch a match!"

Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it under
a pine cone.  A deep silence fell upon the mob.  The cone caught, a tiny
flame flickered about it a moment or two.  I seemed to catch the sound of
distant hoofs--it grew more distinct--still more and more distinct, more
and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did not appear to notice it.
The match went out.  The man struck another, stooped, and again the flame
rose; this time it took hold and began to spread--here and there men
turned away their faces.  The executioner stood with the charred match in
his fingers, watching his work.  The hoof-beats turned a projecting crag,
and now they came thundering down upon us.  Almost the next moment there
was a shout:

"The sheriff!"

And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse almost on
his hind feet, and said:

"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"

He was obeyed.  By all but their leader.  He stood his ground, and his
hand went to his revolver.  The sheriff covered him promptly, and said:

"Drop your hand, you parlor desperado.  Kick the fire away.  Now unchain
the stranger."

The parlor desperado obeyed.  Then the sheriff made a speech; sitting his
horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any touch of fire,
but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and in a tone which
harmonized with their character and made them impressively disrespectful.

"You're a nice lot--now ain't you?  Just about eligible to travel with
this bilk here--Shadbelly Higgins--this loud-mouthed sneak that shoots
people in the back and calls himself a desperado.  If there's anything I
do particularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've never seen one that
had a man in it.  It has to tally up a hundred against one before it can
pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor.  It's made up of cowards,
and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine times out of a
hundred the sheriff's another one."  He paused--apparently to turn that
last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it--then he went on:
"The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away from him is the
lowest-down coward there is.  By the statistics there was a hundred and
eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America last year.  By the way
it's going, pretty soon there 'll be a new disease in the doctor-books
--sheriff complaint."  That idea pleased him--any one could see it.
"People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?'  'Yes; got the same old thing.'
And next there 'll be a new title.  People won't say, 'He's running for
sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance; they'll say, 'He's running for
Coward of Rapaho.'  Lord, the idea of a grown-up person being afraid of
a lynch mob!"

He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you, and
what have you been doing?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing anything."

It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name made on the
sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted.  He spoke up with
feeling, and said it was a blot on the county that a man whose marvelous
exploits had filled the world with their fame and their ingenuity, and
whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by the brilliancy
and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under the Stars
and Stripes by an outrage like this.  He apologized in the name of the
whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow, and told Constable
Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself personally
responsible if he was molested again.  Then he turned to the mob and
said:

"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said: "Follow me,
Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself.  No--keep your popgun;
whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you behind me with
that thing, it 'll be time for me to join last year's hundred and
eighty-two"; and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.

When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time, we ran
upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the
night and is gone!  Nobody is sorry.  Let his uncle track him out if he
likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.




V

Ten days later.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement
too.  I start with him for Denver to-morrow morning.

Next night.  Brief note, mailed at a way-station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: "Keep this
news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb his
mind and check his improvement: the ancient crime he spoke of was really
committed--and by his cousin, as he said.  We buried the real criminal
the other day--the unhappiest man that has lived in a century--Flint
Buckner.  His real name was Jacob Fuller!"  There, mother, by help of me,
an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave.  Let
him rest.


End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Double Barrelled Detective
by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)






 THE $30,000 BEQUEST
 and Other Stories

 by
 Mark Twain
 (Samuel L. Clemens)


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




THE $30,000 BEQUEST


CHAPTER I


Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants,
and a rather pretty one, too, as towns go in the Far West.  It had church
accommodations for thirty-five thousand, which is the way of the Far
West and the South, where everybody is religious, and where each of the
Protestant sects is represented and has a plant of its own.  Rank was
unknown in Lakeside--unconfessed, anyway; everybody knew everybody and
his dog, and a sociable friendliness was the prevailing atmosphere.

Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store, and the only
high-salaried man of his profession in Lakeside.  He was thirty-five
years old, now; he had served that store for fourteen years;
he had begun in his marriage-week at four hundred dollars a year,
and had climbed steadily up, a hundred dollars a year, for four years;
from that time forth his wage had remained eight hundred--a handsome
figure indeed, and everybody conceded that he was worth it.

His wife, Electra, was a capable helpmeet, although--like himself
--a dreamer of dreams and a private dabbler in romance.  The first thing
she did, after her marriage--child as she was, aged only nineteen
--was to buy an acre of ground on the edge of the town, and pay
down the cash for it--twenty-five dollars, all her fortune.
Saladin had less, by fifteen.  She instituted a vegetable garden there,
got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor, and made it pay
her a hundred per cent.  a year.  Out of Saladin's first year's wage
she put thirty dollars in the savings-bank, sixty out of his second,
a hundred out of his third, a hundred and fifty out of his fourth.
His wage went to eight hundred a year, then, and meantime two children
had arrived and increased the expenses, but she banked two hundred
a year from the salary, nevertheless, thenceforth.  When she had been
married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and comfortable
two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre, paid
half of the money down and moved her family in.  Seven years later
she was out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning
its living.

Earning it by the rise in landed estate; for she had long ago bought
another acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit to pleasant
people who were willing to build, and would be good neighbors and
furnish a general comradeship for herself and her growing family.
She had an independent income from safe investments of about a hundred
dollars a year; her children were growing in years and grace;
and she was a pleased and happy woman.  Happy in her husband, happy in
her children, and the husband and the children were happy in her.
It is at this point that this history begins.

The youngest girl, Clytemnestra--called Clytie for short
--was eleven; her sister, Gwendolen--called Gwen for short
--was thirteen; nice girls, and comely.  The names betray the latent
romance-tinge in the parental blood, the parents' names indicate
that the tinge was an inheritance.  It was an affectionate family,
hence all four of its members had pet names, Saladin's was a curious
and unsexing one--Sally; and so was Electra's--Aleck.  All day
long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman;
all day long Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife,
and thoughtful and calculating business woman; but in the cozy
living-room at night they put the plodding world away, and lived in
another and a fairer, reading romances to each other, dreaming dreams,
comrading with kings and princes and stately lords and ladies in the
flash and stir and splendor of noble palaces and grim and ancient castles.



CHAPTER II


Now came great news!  Stunning news--joyous news, in fact.
It came from a neighboring state, where the family's only surviving
relative lived.  It was Sally's relative--a sort of vague and indefinite
uncle or second or third cousin by the name of Tilbury Foster,
seventy and a bachelor, reputed well off and corresponding sour
and crusty.  Sally had tried to make up to him once, by letter,
in a bygone time, and had not made that mistake again.  Tilbury now
wrote to Sally, saying he should shortly die, and should leave him
thirty thousand dollars, cash; not for love, but because money
had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished
to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its
malignant work.  The bequest would be found in his will, and would
be paid over.  PROVIDED, that Sally should be able to prove to the
executors that he had TAKEN NO NOTICE OF THE GIFT BY SPOKEN WORD OR
BY LETTER, HAD MADE NO INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE MORIBUND'S PROGRESS
TOWARD THE EVERLASTING TROPICS, AND HAD NOT ATTENDED THE FUNERAL.

As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the tremendous
emotions created by the letter, she sent to the relative's habitat
and subscribed for the local paper.

Man and wife entered 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 dream 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 recherche, 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 mesalliances.

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 unendurable holiness.  But there
is was; the pride of riches was beginning its disintegrating work.
They had lived to prove, once more, a sad truth which had been proven
many times before in the world:  that whereas principle is a great
and noble protection against showy and degrading vanities and vices,
poverty is worth six of it.  More than four hundred thousand
dollars to the good.  They took up the matrimonial matter again.
Neither the dentist nor the lawyer was mentioned; there was no occasion,
they were out of the running.  Disqualified.  They discussed the son
of the pork-packer and the son of the village banker.  But finally,
as in the previous case, they concluded to wait and think, and go
cautiously and sure.

Luck came their way again.  Aleck, ever watchful saw a great
and risky chance, and took a daring flyer.  A time of trembling,
of doubt, of awful uneasiness followed, for non-success meant absolute
ruin and nothing short of it.  Then came the result, and Aleck,
faint with joy, could hardly control her voice when she said:

"The suspense is over, Sally--and we are worth a cold million!"

Sally wept for gratitude, and said:

"Oh, Electra, jewel of women, darling of my heart, we are free
at last, we roll in wealth, we need never scrimp again.  It's a
case for Veuve Cliquot!" and he got out a pint of spruce-beer
and made sacrifice, he saying "Damn the expense," and she rebuking
him gently with reproachful but humid and happy eyes.

They shelved the pork-packer's son and the banker's son, and sat
down to consider the Governor's son and the son of the Congressman.



CHAPTER VI


It were a weariness to follow in detail the leaps and bounds the Foster
fictitious finances took from this time forth.  It was marvelous,
it was dizzying, it was dazzling.  Everything Aleck touched turned
to fairy gold, and heaped itself glittering toward the firmament.
Millions upon millions poured in, and still the mighty stream flowed
thundering along, still its vast volume increased.  Five millions
--ten millions--twenty--thirty--was there never to be an end?

Two years swept by in a splendid delirium, the intoxicated Fosters
scarcely noticing the flight of time.  They were now worth three hundred
million dollars; they were in every board of directors of every
prodigious combine in the country; and still as time drifted along,
the millions went on piling up, five at a time, ten at a time,
as fast as they could tally them off, almost.  The three hundred
double itself--then doubled again--and yet again--and yet once more.

Twenty-four hundred millions!

The business was getting a little confused.  It was necessary
to take an account of stock, and straighten it out.  The Fosters
knew it, they felt it, they realized that it was imperative;
but they also knew that to do it properly and perfectly the task
must be carried to a finish without a break when once it was begun.
A ten-hours' job; and where could THEY find ten leisure hours
in a bunch?  Sally was selling pins and sugar and calico all day
and every day; Aleck was cooking and washing dishes and sweeping
and making beds all day and every day, with none to help,
for the daughters were being saved up for high society.  The Fosters
knew there was one way to get the ten hours, and only one.
Both were ashamed to name it; each waited for the other to do it.
Finally Sally said:

"Somebody's got to give in.  It's up to me.  Consider that I've
named it--never mind pronouncing it out aloud."

Aleck colored, but was grateful.  Without further remark, they fell.
Fell, and--broke the Sabbath.  For that was their only free
ten-hour stretch.  It was but another step in the downward path.
Others would follow.  Vast wealth has temptations which fatally
and surely undermine the moral structure of persons not habituated
to its possession.

They pulled down the shades and broke the Sabbath.  With hard
and patient labor they overhauled their holdings and listed them.
And a long-drawn procession of formidable names it was!
Starting with the Railway Systems, Steamer Lines, Standard Oil,
Ocean Cables, Diluted Telegraph, and all the rest, and winding
up with Klondike, De Beers, Tammany Graft, and Shady Privileges
in the Post-office Department.

Twenty-four hundred millions, and all safely planted in Good Things,
gilt-edged and interest-bearing. Income, $120,000,000 a year.
Aleck fetched a long purr of soft delight, and said:

"Is it enough?"

"It is, Aleck."

"What shall we do?"

"Stand pat."

"Retire from business?"

"That's it."

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

"Good!  Aleck!"

"Yes, dear?"

"How much of the income can we spend?"

"The whole of it."

It seemed to her husband that a ton of chains fell from his limbs.
He did not say a word; he was happy beyond the power of speech.

After that, they broke the Sabbaths right along as fast as they
turned up.  It is the first wrong step that counts.  Every Sunday
they put in the whole day, after morning service, on inventions
--inventions of ways to spend the money.  They got to continuing this
delicious dissipation until past midnight; and at every seance 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
blase 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" as 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 cane 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 they 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 love 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 love 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 we 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 ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;
her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess
confessed before him.


There is nothing of interest in the couple's interview.  Now at this
point the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is
the motive of the play, for she wants to teach him a wholesome lesson,
if he is a jealous person.  But this is a sham, and pretty shallow.
McClintock merely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon
a scene or two in "Othello."

The lovers went to the play.  Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers.
He and Ambulinia must not been seen together, lest trouble follow with
the girl's malignant father; we are made to understand that clearly.
So the two sit together in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians.
This does not seem to be good art.  In the first place, the girl would
be in the way, for orchestras are always packed closely together,
and there is no room to spare for people's girls; in the next place,
one cannot conceal a girl in an orchestra without everybody taking
notice of it.  There can be no doubt, it seems to me, that this is
bad art.

Leos is present.  Of course, one of the first things that catches
his eye is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia "leaning upon
Elfonzo's chair."  This poor girl does not seem to understand even
the rudiments of concealment.  But she is "in her seventeenth,"
as the author phrases it, and that is her justification.

Leos meditates, constructs a plan--with personal violence as a basis,
of course.  It was their way down there.  It is a good plain plan,
without any imagination in it.  He will go out and stand at the
front door, and when these two come out he will "arrest Ambulinia
from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo," and thus make for himself
a "more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed
by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew or artist imagined."  But, dear me,
while he is waiting there the couple climb out at the back window
and scurry home!  This is romantic enough, but there is a lack
of dignity in the situation.

At this point McClintock puts in the whole of his curious play
--which we skip.

Some correspondence follows now.  The bitter father and the
distressed lovers write the letters.  Elopements are attempted.
They are idiotically planned, and they fail.  Then we have several
pages of romantic powwow and confusion dignifying nothing.
Another elopement is planned; it is to take place on Sunday,
when everybody is at church.  But the "hero" cannot keep the secret;
he tells everybody.  Another author would have found another
instrument when he decided to defeat this elopement; but that is
not McClintock's way.  He uses the person that is nearest at hand.

The evasion failed, of course.  Ambulinia, in her flight,
takes refuge in a neighbor's house.  Her father drags her home.
The villagers gather, attracted by the racket.


Elfonzo was moved at this sight.  The people followed on to see
what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks,
kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father,
thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence
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.  They 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 bring 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 wish 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 region, 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 now 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 would 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
so 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 it 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,
tire (Fr. TIRE, 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.