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Title: The £1,000,000 bank-note
       and other new stories

Author: Mark Twain

Release Date: February 27, 2020 [EBook #61522]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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                                  THE
                          £1,000,000 BANK-NOTE
                        _AND OTHER NEW STORIES_

                                   BY

                               MARK TWAIN

[Illustration]

                                TORONTO
                        THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
                                LIMITED




                                CONTENTS


                                                      PAGE
             THE £1,000,000 BANK-NOTE                    1

             MENTAL TELEGRAPHY                          41

             A CURE FOR THE BLUES                       77

             THE ENEMY CONQUERED; OR, LOVE TRIUMPHANT  114

             ABOUT ALL KINDS OF SHIPS                  193

             PLAYING COURIER                           225

             THE GERMAN CHICAGO                        253

             A PETITION TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND        277

             A MAJESTIC LITERARY FOSSIL                287




                       _THE £1,000,000 BANK-NOTE_


When I was twenty-seven years old, I was a mining-broker’s clerk in San
Francisco, and an expert in all the details of stock traffic. I was
alone in the world, and had nothing to depend upon but my wits and a
clean reputation; but these were setting my feet in the road to eventual
fortune, and I was content with the prospect.

My time was my own after the afternoon board, Saturdays, and I was
accustomed to put it in on a little sail-boat on the bay. One day I
ventured too far, and was carried out to sea. Just at nightfall, when
hope was about gone, I was picked up by a small brig which was bound for
London. It was a long and stormy voyage, and they made me work my
passage without pay, as a common sailor. When I stepped ashore in London
my clothes were ragged and shabby, and I had only a dollar in my pocket.
This money fed and sheltered me twenty-four hours. During the next
twenty-four I went without food and shelter.

About ten o’clock on the following morning, seedy and hungry, I was
dragging myself along Portland Place, when a child that was passing,
towed by a nursemaid, tossed a luscious big pear—minus one bite—into the
gutter. I stopped, of course, and fastened my desiring eye on that muddy
treasure. My mouth watered for it, my stomach craved it, my whole being
begged for it. But every time I made a move to get it some passing eye
detected my purpose, and of course I straightened up, then, and looked
indifferent, and pretended that I hadn’t been thinking about the pear at
all. This same thing kept happening and happening, and I couldn’t get
the pear. I was just getting desperate enough to brave all the shame,
and to seize it, when a window behind me was raised, and a gentleman
spoke out of it, saying:

‘Step in here, please.’

I was admitted by a gorgeous flunkey, and shown into a sumptuous room
where a couple of elderly gentlemen were sitting. They sent away the
servant, and made me sit down. They had just finished their breakfast,
and the sight of the remains of it almost overpowered me. I could hardly
keep my wits together in the presence of that food, but as I was not
asked to sample it, I had to bear my trouble as best I could.

Now, something had been happening there a little before, which I did not
know anything about until a good many days afterwards, but I will tell
you about it now. Those two old brothers had been having a pretty hot
argument a couple of days before, and had ended by agreeing to decide it
by a bet, which is the English way of settling everything.

You will remember that the Bank of England once issued two notes of a
million pounds each, to be used for a special purpose connected with
some public transaction with a foreign country. For some reason or other
only one of these had been used and cancelled; the other still lay in
the vaults of the Bank. Well, the brothers, chatting along, happened to
get to wondering what might be the fate of a perfectly honest and
intelligent stranger who should be turned adrift in London without a
friend, and with no money but that million-pound bank-note, and no way
to account for his being in possession of it. Brother A said he would
starve to death; Brother B said he wouldn’t. Brother A said he couldn’t
offer it at a bank or anywhere else, because he would be arrested on the
spot. So they went on disputing till Brother B said he would bet twenty
thousand pounds that the man would live thirty days, _any way_, on that
million, and keep out of jail, too. Brother A took him up. Brother B
went down to the Bank and bought that note. Just like an Englishman, you
see; pluck to the backbone. Then he dictated a letter, which one of his
clerks wrote out in a beautiful round hand, and then the two brothers
sat at the window a whole day watching for the right man to give it to.

They saw many honest faces go by that were not intelligent enough; many
that were intelligent but not honest enough; many that were both, but
the possessors were not poor enough, or, if poor enough, were not
strangers. There was always a defect, until I came along; but they
agreed that I filled the bill all around; so they elected me
unanimously, and there I was, now, waiting to know why I was called in.
They began to ask me questions about myself, and pretty soon they had my
story. Finally they told me I would answer their purpose. I said I was
sincerely glad, and asked what it was. Then one of them handed me an
envelope, and said I would find the explanation inside. I was going to
open it, but he said no; take it to my lodgings, and look it over
carefully, and not be hasty or rash. I was puzzled, and wanted to
discuss the matter a little further, but they didn’t; so I took my
leave, feeling hurt and insulted to be made the butt of what was
apparently some kind of a practical joke, and yet obliged to put up with
it, not being in circumstances to resent affronts from rich and strong
folk.

I would have picked up the pear, now, and eaten it before all the world,
but it was gone; so I had lost that by this unlucky business, and the
thought of it did not soften my feeling towards those men. As soon as I
was out of sight of that house I opened my envelope, and saw that it
contained money! My opinion of those people changed, I can tell you! I
lost not a moment, but shoved note and money into my vest-pocket, and
broke for the nearest cheap eating-house. Well, how I did eat! When at
last I couldn’t hold any more, I took out my money and unfolded it, took
one glimpse and nearly fainted. Five millions of dollars! Why, it made
my head swim.

I must have sat there stunned and blinking at the note as much as a
minute before I came rightly to myself again. The first thing I noticed,
then, was the landlord. His eye was on the note, and he was petrified.
He was worshipping, with all his body and soul, but he looked as if he
couldn’t stir hand or foot. I took my cue in a moment, and did the only
rational thing there was to do. I reached the note towards him, and said
carelessly:

‘Give me the change, please.’

Then he was restored to his normal condition, and made a thousand
apologies for not being able to break the bill, and I couldn’t get him
to touch it. He wanted to look at it, and keep on looking at it; he
couldn’t seem to get enough of it to quench the thirst of his eye, but
he shrank from touching it as if it had been something too sacred for
poor common clay to handle. I said:

‘I am sorry if it is an inconvenience, but I must insist. Please change
it; I haven’t anything else.’

But he said that wasn’t any matter; he was quite willing to let the
trifle stand over till another time. I said I might not be in his
neighbourhood again for a good while; but he said it was of no
consequence, he could wait, and, moreover, I could have anything I
wanted, any time I chose, and let the account run as long as I pleased.
He said he hoped he wasn’t afraid to trust as rich a gentleman as I was,
merely because I was of a merry disposition, and chose to play larks on
the public in the matter of dress. By this time another customer was
entering, and the landlord hinted to me to put the monster out of sight;
then he bowed me all the way to the door, and I started straight for
that house and those brothers, to correct the mistake which had been
made before the police should hunt me up, and help me do it. I was
pretty nervous, in fact pretty badly frightened, though, of course, I
was no way in fault; but I knew men well enough to know that when they
find they’ve given a tramp a million-pound bill when they thought it was
a one-pounder, they are in a frantic rage against _him_ instead of
quarrelling with their own near-sightedness, as they ought. As I
approached the house my excitement began to abate, for all was quiet
there, which made me feel pretty sure the blunder was not discovered
yet. I rang. The same servant appeared. I asked for those gentlemen.

‘They are gone.’ This in the lofty, cold way of that fellow’s tribe.

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘On a journey.’

‘But whereabouts?’

‘To the Continent, I think.’

‘The Continent?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Which way—by what route?’

‘I can’t say, sir.’

‘When will they be back?’

‘In a month, they said.’

‘A month! Oh, this is awful! Give me _some_ sort of idea of how to get a
word to them. It’s of the last importance.’

‘I can’t, indeed. I’ve no idea where they’ve gone, sir.’

‘Then I must see some member of the family.’

‘Family’s away too; been abroad months—in Egypt and India, I think.’

‘Man, there’s been an immense mistake made. They’ll be back before
night. Will you tell them I’ve been here, and that I will keep coming
till it’s all made right, and they needn’t be afraid?’

‘I’ll tell them, if they come back, but I am not expecting them. They
said you would be here in an hour to make inquiries, but I must tell you
it’s all right, they’ll be here on time and expect you.’

So I had to give it up and go away. What a riddle it all was! I was like
to lose my mind. They would be here ‘on time.’ What could that mean? Oh,
the letter would explain, maybe. I had forgotten the letter; I got it
out and read it. This is what it said:

‘You are an intelligent and honest man, as one may see by your face. We
conceive you to be poor and a stranger. Enclosed you will find a sum of
money. It is lent to you for thirty days, without interest. Report at
this house at the end of that time. I have a bet on you. If I win it you
shall have any situation that is in my gift—any, that is, that you shall
be able to prove yourself familiar with and competent to fill.’

No signature, no address, no date.

Well, here was a coil to be in! You are posted on what had preceded all
this, but I was not. It was just a deep, dark puzzle to me. I hadn’t the
least idea what the game was, nor whether harm was meant me or a
kindness. I went into a park, and sat down to try to think it out, and
to consider what I had best do.

At the end of an hour, my reasonings had crystallised into this verdict.

Maybe those men mean me well, maybe they mean me ill; no way to decide
that—let it go. They’ve got a game, or a scheme, or an experiment of
some kind on hand; no way to determine what it is—let it go. There’s a
bet on me; no way to find out what it is—let it go. That disposes of the
indeterminable quantities; the remainder of the matter is tangible,
solid, and may be classed and labelled with certainty. If I ask the Bank
of England to place this bill to the credit of the man it belongs to,
they’ll do it, for they know him, although I don’t; but they will ask me
how I came in possession of it, and if I tell the truth, they’ll put me
in the asylum, naturally, and a lie will land me in jail. The same
result would follow if I tried to bank the bill anywhere or to borrow
money on it. I have got to carry this immense burden around until those
men come back, whether I want to or not. It is useless to me, as useless
as a handful of ashes, and yet I must take care of it, and watch over
it, while I beg my living. I couldn’t _give_ it away, if I should try,
for neither honest citizen nor highwayman would accept it or meddle with
it for anything. Those brothers are safe. Even if I lose their bill, or
burn it, they are still safe, because they can stop payment, and the
Bank will make them whole; but meantime, I’ve got to do a month’s
suffering without wages or profit—unless I help win that bet, whatever
it may be, and get that situation that I am promised. I _should_ like to
get that; men of their sort have situations in their gift that are worth
having.

I got to thinking a good deal about that situation. My hopes began to
rise high. Without doubt the salary would be large. It would begin in a
month; after that I should be all right. Pretty soon I was feeling
first-rate. By this time I was tramping the streets again. The sight of
a tailor-shop gave me a sharp longing to shed my rags, and to clothe
myself decently once more. Could I afford it? No; I had nothing in the
world but a million pounds. So I forced myself to go on by. But soon I
was drifting back again. The temptation persecuted me cruelly. I must
have passed that shop back and forth six times during that manful
struggle. At last I gave in; I had to. I asked if they had a misfit suit
that had been thrown on their hands. The fellow I spoke to nodded his
head towards another fellow, and gave me no answer. I went to the
indicated fellow, and he indicated another fellow with _his_ head, and
no words. I went to him, and he said:

‘’Tend to you presently.’

I waited till he was done with what he was at, then he took me into a
back room, and overhauled a pile of rejected suits, and selected the
rattiest one for me. I put it on. It didn’t fit, and wasn’t in any way
attractive, but it was new, and I was anxious to have it; so I didn’t
find any fault, but said with some diffidence:

‘It would be an accommodation to me if you could wait some days for the
money. I haven’t any small change about me.’

The fellow worked up a most sarcastic expression of countenance, and
said:

‘Oh, you haven’t? Well, of course, I didn’t expect it. I’d only expect
gentlemen like you to carry large change.’

I was nettled, and said:

‘My friend, you shouldn’t judge a stranger always by the clothes he
wears. I am quite able to pay for this suit; I simply didn’t wish to put
you to the trouble of changing a large note.’

He modified his style a little at that, and said, though still with
something of an air:

‘I didn’t mean any particular harm, but as long as rebukes are going, I
might say it wasn’t quite your affair to jump to the conclusion that we
couldn’t change any note that you might happen to be carrying around. On
the contrary, we _can_.’

I handed the note to him, and said:

‘Oh, very well; I apologise.’

He received it with a smile, one of those large smiles which goes all
around over, and has folds in it, and wrinkles, and spirals, and looks
like the place where you have thrown a brick in a pond; and then in the
act of his taking a glimpse of the bill this smile froze solid, and
turned yellow, and looked like those wavy, wormy spreads of lava which
you find hardened on little levels on the side of Vesuvius. I never
before saw a smile caught like that, and perpetuated. The man stood
there holding the bill, and looking like that, and the proprietor
hustled up to see what was the matter, and said briskly:

‘Well, what’s up? what’s the trouble? what’s wanting?’

I said, ‘There isn’t any trouble. I’m waiting for my change.’

‘Come, come; get him his change, Tod; get him his change.’

Tod retorted: ‘Get him his change! It’s easy to say, sir; but look at
the bill yourself.’

The proprietor took a look, gave a low, eloquent whistle, then made a
dive for the pile of rejected clothing, and began to snatch it this way
and that, talking all the time excitedly, and as if to himself:

‘Sell an eccentric millionaire such an unspeakable suit as that! Tod’s a
fool—a born fool. Always doing something like this. Drives every
millionaire away from this place, because he can’t tell a millionaire
from a tramp, and never could. Ah, here’s the thing I’m after. Please
get those things off, sir, and throw them in the fire. Do me the favour
to put on this shirt and this suit; it’s just the thing, the very
thing—plain, rich, modest, and just ducally nobby; made to order for a
foreign prince—you may know him, sir, his Serene Highness the Hospodar
of Halifax; had to leave it with us and take a mourning-suit because his
mother was going to die—which she didn’t. But that’s all right; we can’t
always have things the way we—that is, the way they—there! trousers all
right, they fit you to a charm, sir; now the waistcoat: aha, right
again! now the coat—lord! look at that, now! Perfect, the whole thing! I
never saw such a triumph in all my experience.’

I expressed my satisfaction.

‘Quite right, sir, quite right; it’ll do for a makeshift, I’m bound to
say. But wait till you see what we’ll get up for you on your own
measure. Come, Tod, book and pen; get at it. Length of leg, 32’—and so
on. Before I could get in a word he had measured me, and was giving
orders for dress-suits, morning suits, shirts, and all sorts of things.
When I got a chance I said:

‘But, my dear sir, I _can’t_ give these orders, unless you can wait
indefinitely, or change the bill.’

‘Indefinitely! It’s a weak word, sir, a weak word. Eternally—_that’s_
the word, sir. Tod, rush these things through, and send them to the
gentleman’s address without any waste of time. Let the minor customers
wait. Set down the gentleman’s address and——’

‘I’m changing my quarters. I will drop in and leave the new address.’

‘Quite right, sir, quite right. One moment—let me show you out, sir.
There—good day, sir, good day.’

Well, don’t you see what was bound to happen? I drifted naturally into
buying whatever I wanted, and asking for change. Within a week I was
sumptuously equipped with all needful comforts and luxuries, and was
housed in an expensive private hotel in Hanover Square. I took my
dinners there, but for breakfast I stuck by Harris’s humble
feeding-house, where I had got my first meal on my million-pound bill. I
was the making of Harris. The fact had gone all abroad that the foreign
crank who carried million-pound bills in his vest-pocket was the patron
saint of the place. That was enough. From being a poor, struggling,
little hand-to-mouth enterprise, it had become celebrated, and
overcrowded with customers. Harris was so grateful that he forced loans
upon me, and would not be denied; and so, pauper as I was, I had money
to spend, and was living like the rich and the great. I judged that
there was going to be a crash by and by, but I was in, now, and must
swim across or drown. You see there was just that element of impending
disaster to give a serious side, a sober side, yes, a tragic side, to a
state of things which would otherwise have been purely ridiculous. In
the night, in the dark, the tragedy part was always to the front, and
always warning, always threatening; and so I moaned and tossed, and
sleep was hard to find. But in the cheerful daylight the tragedy element
faded out and disappeared, and I walked on air, and was happy to
giddiness, to intoxication, you may say.

And it was natural; for I had become one of the notorieties of the
metropolis of the world, and it turned my head, not just a little, but a
good deal. You could not take up a newspaper, English, Scotch, or Irish,
without finding in it one or more references to the ‘vest-pocket
million-pounder’ and his latest doings and sayings. At first, in these
mentions, I was at the bottom of the personal gossip column; next, I was
listed above the knights, next above the baronets, next above the
barons, and so on, and so on, climbing steadily, as my notoriety
augmented, until I reached the highest altitude possible, and there I
remained, taking precedence of all dukes not royal, and of all
ecclesiastics except the Primate of all England. But, mind, this was not
fame; as yet I had achieved only notoriety. Then came the climaxing
stroke—the accolade, so to speak—which in a single instance transmuted
the perishable dross of notoriety into the enduring gold of fame:
‘Punch’ caricatured me! Yes, I was a made man, now: my place was
established. I might be joked about still, but reverently, not
hilariously, not rudely; I could be smiled at, but not laughed at. The
time for that had gone by. ‘Punch’ pictured me all a-flutter with rags,
dickering with a beefeater for the Tower of London. Well, you can
imagine how it was with a young fellow who had never been taken notice
of before, and now all of a sudden couldn’t say a thing that wasn’t
taken up and repeated everywhere; couldn’t stir abroad without
constantly overhearing the remark flying from lip to lip, ‘There he
goes; that’s him!’ couldn’t take his breakfast without a crowd to look
on; couldn’t appear in an opera-box without concentrating there the fire
of a thousand lorgnettes. Why, I just swam in glory all day long—that is
the amount of it.

You know, I even kept my old suit of rags, and every now and then
appeared in them, so as to have the old pleasure of buying trifles, and
being insulted, and then shooting the scoffer dead with the
million-pound bill. But I couldn’t keep that up. The illustrated papers
made the outfit so familiar that when I went out in it I was at once
recognised and followed by a crowd, and if I attempted a purchase the
man would offer me his whole shop on credit before I could pull my note
on him.

About the tenth day of my fame I went to fulfil my duty to my flag by
paying my respects to the American minister. He received me with the
enthusiasm proper in my case, upbraided me for being so tardy in my
duty, and said that there was only one way to get his forgiveness, and
that was to take the seat at his dinner-party that night made vacant by
the illness of one of his guests. I said I would, and we got to talking.
It turned out that he and my father had been schoolmates in boyhood,
Yale students together later, and always warm friends up to my father’s
death. So then he required me to put in at his house all the odd time I
might have to spare, and I was very willing, of course.

In fact I was more than willing; I was glad. When the crash should come,
he might somehow be able to save me from total destruction; I didn’t
know how, but he might think of a way, maybe. I couldn’t venture to
unbosom myself to him at this late date, a thing which I would have been
quick to do in the beginning of this awful career of mine in London. No,
I couldn’t venture it now; I was in too deep; that is, too deep for me
to be risking revelations to so new a friend, though not clear beyond my
depth, as _I_ looked at it. Because, you see, with all my borrowing, I
was carefully keeping within my means—I mean within my salary. Of course
I couldn’t _know_ what my salary was going to be, but I had a good
enough basis for an estimate in the fact that, if I won the bet, I was
to have _choice_ of any situation in that rich old gentleman’s gift
provided I was competent—and I should certainly prove competent; I
hadn’t any doubt about that. And as to the bet, I wasn’t worrying about
that; I had always been lucky. Now, my estimate of the salary was six
hundred to a thousand a year; say, six hundred for the first year, and
so on up year by year, till I struck the upper figure by proved merit.
At present I was only in debt for my first year’s salary. Everybody had
been trying to lend me money, but I had fought off the most of them on
one pretext or another; so this indebtedness represented only £300
borrowed money, the other £300 represented my keep and my purchases. I
believed my second year’s salary would carry me through the rest of the
month if I went on being cautious and economical, and I intended to look
sharply out for that. My month ended, my employer back from his journey,
I should be all right once more, for I should at once divide the two
years’ salary among my creditors by assignment, and get right down to my
work.

It was a lovely dinner party of fourteen. The Duke and Duchess
of Shoreditch, and their daughter the Lady
Anne-Grace-Eleanor-Celeste-and-so-forth-and-so-forth-de-Bohun, the Earl
and Countess of Newgate, Viscount Cheapside, Lord and Lady Blatherskite,
some untitled people of both sexes, the minister and his wife and
daughter, and his daughter’s visiting friend, an English girl of
twenty-two, named Portia Langham, whom I fell in love with in two
minutes, and she with me—I could see it without glasses. There was still
another guest, an American—but I am a little ahead of my story. While
the people were still in the drawing-room, whetting up for dinner, and
coldly inspecting the late comers, the servant announced:

‘Mr. Lloyd Hastings.’

The moment the usual civilities were over, Hastings caught sight of me,
and came straight with cordially outstretched hand; then stopped short
when about to shake, and said with an embarrassed look:

‘I beg your pardon, sir, I thought I knew you.’

‘Why, you do know me, old fellow.’

‘No! Are _you_ the—the——?’

‘Vest-pocket monster? I am, indeed. Don’t be afraid to call me by my
nickname; I’m used to it.’

‘Well, well, well, this is a surprise. Once or twice I’ve seen your own
name coupled with the nickname, but it never occurred to me that _you_
could be the Henry Adams referred to. Why, it isn’t six months since you
were clerking away for Blake Hopkins in Frisco on a salary, and sitting
up nights on an extra allowance, helping me arrange and verify the Gould
and Curry Extension papers and statistics. The idea of your being in
London, and a vast millionaire, and a colossal celebrity! Why, it’s the
Arabian Nights come again. Man, I can’t take it in at all; can’t realise
it; give me time to settle the whirl in my head.’

‘The fact is, Lloyd, you are no worse off than I am. I can’t realise it
myself.’

‘Dear me, it _is_ stunning, now, isn’t it? Why, it’s just three months
to-day since we went to the Miners’ restaurant——’

‘No; the What Cheer.’

‘Right, it _was_ the What Cheer; went there at two in the morning, and
had a chop and coffee after a hard six hours’ grind over those Extension
papers, and I tried to persuade you to come to London with me, and
offered to get leave of absence for you and pay all your expenses, and
give you something over if I succeeded in making the sale; and you would
not listen to me, said I wouldn’t succeed, and you couldn’t afford to
lose the run of business and be no end of time getting the hang of
things again when you got back home. And yet here you are. How odd it
all is! How did you happen to come, and whatever _did_ give you this
incredible start?’

‘Oh, just an accident. It’s a long story—a romance, a body may say. I’ll
tell you all about it, but not now.

‘When?’

‘The end of this month.’

‘That’s more than a fortnight yet. It’s too much of a strain on a
person’s curiosity. Make it a week.’

‘I can’t. You’ll know why, by and by. But how’s the trade getting
along?’

His cheerfulness vanished like a breath, and he said with a sigh:

‘You were a true prophet, Hal, a true prophet. I wish I hadn’t come. I
don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But you must. You must come and stop with me to-night, when we leave
here, and tell me all about it.’

‘Oh, may I? Are you in earnest?’ and the water showed in his eyes.

‘Yes; I want to hear the whole story, every word.’

‘I’m so grateful! Just to find a human interest once more, in some voice
and in some eye, in me and affairs of mine, after what I’ve been through
here—lord! I could go down on my knees for it!’

He gripped my hand hard, and braced up, and was all right and lively
after that for the dinner—which didn’t come off. No; the usual thing
happened, the thing that is always happening under that vicious and
aggravating English system—the matter of precedence couldn’t be settled,
and so there was no dinner. Englishmen always eat dinner before they go
out to dinner, because _they_ know the risks they are running; but
nobody ever warns the stranger, and so he walks placidly into the trap.
Of course nobody was hurt this time, because we had all been to dinner,
none of us being novices except Hastings, and he having been informed by
the minister at the time that he invited him that in deference to the
English custom he had not provided any dinner. Everybody took a lady and
processioned down to the dining-room, because it is usual to go through
the motions; but there the dispute began. The Duke of Shoreditch wanted
to take precedence, and sit at the head of the table, holding that he
outranked a minister who represented merely a nation and not a monarch;
but I stood for my rights, and refused to yield. In the gossip column I
ranked all dukes not royal, and said so, and claimed precedence of this
one. It couldn’t be settled, of course, struggle as we might and did, he
finally (and injudiciously) trying to play birth and antiquity, and I
‘seeing’ his Conqueror and ‘raising’ him with Adam, whose direct
posterity I was, as shown by my name, while _he_ was of a collateral
branch, as shown by _his_, and by his recent Norman origin; so we all
processioned back to the drawing-room again and had a perpendicular
lunch—plate of sardines and a strawberry, and you group yourself and
stand up and eat it. Here the religion of precedence is not so
strenuous; the two persons of highest rank chuck up a shilling, the one
that wins has first go at his strawberry, and the loser gets the
shilling. The next two chuck up, then the next two, and so on. After
refreshment, tables were brought, and we all played cribbage, sixpence a
game. The English never play any game for amusement. If they can’t make
something or lose something—they don’t care which—they won’t play.

We had a lovely time; certainly two of us had, Miss Langham and I. I was
so bewitched with her that I couldn’t count my hands if they went above
a double sequence; and when I struck home I never discovered it, and
started up the outside row again, and would have lost the game every
time, only the girl did the same, she being in just my condition, you
see; and consequently neither of us ever got out, or cared to wonder why
we didn’t; we only just knew we were happy, and didn’t wish to know
anything else, and didn’t want to be interrupted. And I _told_ her—I did
indeed—told her I loved her; and she—well, she blushed till her hair
turned red, but she liked it; she _said_ she did. Oh, there was never
such an evening! Every time I pegged I put on a postscript; every time
she pegged she acknowledged receipt of it, counting the hands the same.
Why, I couldn’t even say, ‘Two for his heels,’ without adding, ‘_My_,
how sweet you do look!’ And she would say, ‘Fifteen two, fifteen four,
fifteen six, and a pair are eight, and eight are sixteen—_do_ you think
so?’ peeping out aslant from under her lashes, you know, so sweet and
cunning. Oh, it was just _too_-too!

Well, I was perfectly honest and square with her; told her I hadn’t a
cent in the world but just the million-pound note she’d heard so much
talk about, and _it_ didn’t belong to me; and that started her
curiosity, and then I talked low, and told her the whole history right
from the start, and it nearly killed her, laughing. What in the nation
she could find to laugh about, _I_ couldn’t see, but there it was; every
half minute some new detail would fetch her, and I would have to stop as
much as a minute and a half to give her a chance to settle down again.
Why, she laughed herself lame, she did indeed; I never saw anything like
it. I mean I never saw a painful story—a story of a person’s troubles
and worries and fears—produce just _that_ kind of effect before. So I
loved her all the more, seeing she could be so cheerful when there
wasn’t anything to be cheerful about; for I might soon need that kind of
wife, you know, the way things looked. Of course I told her we should
have to wait a couple of years, till I could catch up on my salary; but
she didn’t mind that, only she hoped I would be as careful as possible
in the matter of expenses, and not let them run the least risk of
trenching on our third year’s pay. Then she began to get a little
worried, and wondered if we were making any mistake, and starting the
salary on a higher figure for the first year than I would get. This was
good sense, and it made me feel a little less confident than I had been
feeling before; but it gave me a good business idea, and I brought it
frankly out.

‘Portia, dear, would you mind going with me that day, when I confront
those old gentlemen?’

She shrank a little, but said:

‘N-o; if my being with you would help hearten you. But—would it be quite
proper, do you think?’

‘No, I don’t know that it would; in fact, I’m afraid it wouldn’t; but,
you see, there’s so _much_ dependent upon it that——’

‘Then I’ll go anyway, proper or improper,’ she said, with a beautiful
and generous enthusiasm. ‘Oh, I shall be so happy to think I’m helping.’

‘Helping, dear? Why, you’ll be doing it all. You’re so beautiful, and so
lovely, and so winning, that with you there I can pile our salary up
till I break those good old fellows, and they’ll never have the heart to
struggle.’

Sho! you should have seen the rich blood mount, and her happy eyes
shine!

‘You wicked flatterer! There isn’t a word of truth in what you say, but
still I’ll go with you. Maybe it will teach you not to expect other
people to look with your eyes.’

Were my doubts dissipated? Was my confidence restored? You may judge by
this fact: privately I raised my salary to twelve hundred the first year
on the spot. But I didn’t tell her; I saved it for a surprise.

All the way home I was in the clouds, Hastings talking, I not hearing a
word. When he and I entered my parlour he brought me to myself with his
fervent appreciations of my manifold comforts and luxuries.

‘Let me just stand here a little and look my fill! Dear me, it’s a
palace; it’s just a palace! And in it everything a body _could_ desire,
including cozy coal fire and supper standing ready. Henry, it doesn’t
merely make me realise how rich you are; it makes me realise to the
bone, to the marrow, how poor I am—how poor I am—and how miserable, how
defeated, routed, annihilated!’

Plague take it! this language gave me the cold shudders. It scared me
broad awake, and made me comprehend that I was standing on a half-inch
crust, with a crater underneath. _I_ didn’t know I had been
dreaming—that is, I hadn’t been allowing myself to know it for a while
back; but _now_—oh, dear! Deep in debt, not a cent in the world, a
lovely girl’s happiness or woe in my hands, and nothing in front of me
but a salary which might never—oh, _would_ never—materialise! Oh, oh,
oh, I am ruined past hope; nothing can save me!

‘Henry, the mere unconsidered drippings of your daily income would——’

‘Oh, my daily income! Here, down with this hot Scotch, and cheer up your
soul. Here’s with you! Or, no—you’re hungry; sit down and——’

‘Not a bite for me; I’m past it. I can’t eat, these days; but I’ll drink
with you till I drop. Come!’

‘Barrel for barrel, I’m with you! Ready! Here we go! Now, then, Lloyd,
unreel your story while I brew.’

‘Unreel it? What, again?’

‘Again? What do you mean by that?’

‘Why, I mean do you want to hear it _over_ again?’

‘Do I want to hear it _over_ again? This _is_ a puzzler. Wait; don’t
take any more of that liquid. You don’t need it.’

‘Look here, Henry, you alarm me. Didn’t I tell you the whole story on
the way here?’

‘You?’

‘Yes, I.’

‘I’ll be hanged if I heard a word of it.’

‘Henry, this is a serious thing. It troubles me. What did you take up
yonder at the minister’s?’

Then it all flashed on me, and I owned up, like a man.

‘I took the dearest girl in this world—prisoner!’

So then he came with a rush, and we shook, and shook, and shook till our
hands ached; and he didn’t blame me for not having heard a word of a
story which had lasted while we walked three miles. He just sat down
then, like the patient, good fellow he was, and told it all over again.
Synopsised, it amounted to this: He had come to England with what he
thought was a grand opportunity; he had an ‘option’ to sell the Gould
and Curry Extension for the ‘locators’ of it, and keep all he could get
over a million dollars. He had worked hard, had pulled every wire he
knew of, had left no honest expedient untried, had spent nearly all the
money he had in the world, had not been able to get a solitary
capitalist to listen to him, and his option would run out at the end of
the month. In a word, he was ruined. Then he jumped up and cried out:

‘Henry, you can save me! You can save me, and you’re the only man in the
universe that can. Will you do it? _Won’t_ you do it?’

‘Tell me how. Speak out, my boy.’

‘Give me a million and my passage home for my ‘option’! Don’t, _don’t_
refuse!’

I was in a kind of agony. I was right on the point of coming out with
the words, ‘Lloyd, I’m a pauper myself—absolutely penniless, and in
_debt_!’ But a white-hot idea came flaming through my head, and I
gripped my jaws together, and calmed myself down till I was as cold as a
capitalist. Then I said, in a commercial and self-possessed way:

‘I will save you, Lloyd——’

‘Then I’m already saved! God be merciful to you for ever! If ever I——’

‘Let me finish, Lloyd. I will save you, but not in that way; for that
would not be fair to you, after your hard work, and the risks you’ve
run. I don’t need to buy mines; I can keep my capital moving, in a
commercial centre like London, without that; it’s what I’m at, all the
time; but here is what I’ll do. I know all about that mine, of course; I
know its immense value, and can swear to it if anybody wishes it. You
shall sell out inside of the fortnight for three millions cash, using my
name freely, and we’ll divide, share and share alike.’

Do you know, he would have danced the furniture to kindling-wood, in his
insane joy, and broken everything on the place, if I hadn’t tripped him
up and tied him.

Then he lay there, perfectly happy, saying:

‘I may use your name! Your name—think of it! Man, they’ll flock in
droves, these rich Londoners; they’ll _fight_ for that stock! I’m a made
man, I’m a made man for ever, and I’ll never forget you as long as I
live!’

In less than twenty-four hours London was abuzz! I hadn’t anything to
do, day after day, but sit at home, and say to all comers:

‘Yes; I told him to refer to me. I know the man and I know the mine. His
character is above reproach, and the mine is worth far more than he asks
for it.’

Meantime I spent all my evenings at the minister’s with Portia. I didn’t
say a word to her about the mine; I saved it for a surprise. We talked
salary; never anything but salary and love; sometimes love, sometimes
salary, sometimes love and salary together. And my! the interest the
minister’s wife and daughter took in our little affair, and the endless
ingenuities they invented to save us from interruption, and to keep the
minister in the dark and unsuspicious—well, it was just lovely of them!

When the month was up, at last, I had a million dollars to my credit in
the London and County Bank, and Hastings was fixed in the same way.
Dressed at my level best, I drove by the house in Portland Place, judged
by the look of things that my birds were home again, went on towards the
minister’s and got my precious, and we started back, talking salary with
all our might. She was so excited and anxious that it made her just
intolerably beautiful. I said:

‘Dearie, the way you’re looking it’s a crime to strike for a salary a
single penny under three thousand a year.’

‘Henry, Henry, you’ll ruin us!’

‘Don’t you be afraid. Just keep up those looks, and trust to me. It’ll
all come out right.’

So, as it turned out, I had to keep bolstering up _her_ courage all the
way. She kept pleading with me, and saying:

‘Oh, please remember that if we ask for too much we may get no salary at
all; and then what will become of us, with no way in the world to earn
our living?’

We were ushered in by that same servant, and there they were, the two
old gentlemen. Of course they were surprised to see that wonderful
creature with me, but I said:

‘It’s all right, gentlemen; she is my future stay and helpmate.’

And I introduced them to her, and called them by name. It didn’t
surprise them; they knew I would know enough to consult the directory.
They seated us, and were very polite to me, and very solicitous to
relieve her from embarrassment, and put her as much at her ease as they
could. Then I said:

‘Gentlemen, I am ready to report.’

‘We are glad to hear it,’ said _my_ man, ‘for now we can decide the bet
which my brother Abel and I made. If you have won for me, you shall have
any situation in my gift. Have you the million-pound note?’

‘Here it is, sir,’ and I handed it to him.

‘I’ve won!’ he shouted, and slapped Abel on the back. ‘_Now_ what do you
say, brother?’

‘I say he _did_ survive, and I’ve lost twenty thousand pounds. I never
would have believed it.’

‘I’ve a further report to make,’ I said, ‘and a pretty long one. I want
you to let me come soon, and detail my whole month’s history; and I
promise you it’s worth hearing. Meantime, take a look at that.’

‘What, man! Certificate of deposit for £200,000? Is it yours?’

‘Mine! I earned it by thirty days’ judicious use of that little loan you
let me have. And the only use I made of it was to buy trifles and offer
the bill in change.’

‘Come, this is astonishing! It’s incredible, man!’

‘Never mind, I’ll prove it. Don’t take my word unsupported.’

But now Portia’s turn was come to be surprised. Her eyes were spread
wide, and she said:

‘Henry, is that really your money? Have you been fibbing to me?’

‘I have indeed, dearie. But you’ll forgive me, _I_ know.’

She put up an arch pout, and said:

‘Don’t you be so sure. You are a naughty thing to deceive me so!’

‘Oh, you’ll get over it, sweetheart, you’ll get over it; it was only
fun, you know. Come, let’s be going.’

‘But wait, wait! The situation, you know. I want to give you the
situation,’ said my man.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m just as grateful as I can be, but really I don’t
want one.’

‘But you can have the very choicest one in my gift.’

‘Thanks again, with all my heart; but I don’t even want _that_ one.’

‘Henry, I’m ashamed of you. You don’t half thank the good gentleman. May
I do it for you?’

‘Indeed you shall, dear, if you can improve it. Let us see you try.’

She walked to my man, got up in his lap, put her arm round his neck, and
kissed him right on the mouth. Then the two old gentlemen shouted with
laughter, but I was dumfounded, just petrified, as you may say. Portia
said:

‘Papa, he has said you haven’t a situation in your gift that he’d take;
and I feel just as hurt as——’

‘My darling! is that your papa?’

‘Yes; he’s my step-papa, and the dearest one that ever was. You
understand now, don’t you, why I was able to laugh when you told me at
the minister’s, not knowing my relationships, what trouble and worry
papa’s and Uncle Abel’s scheme was giving you?’

Of course I spoke right up, now, without any fooling, and went straight
to the point.

‘Oh, my dearest dear sir, I want to take back what I said. You _have_
got a situation open that I want.’

‘Name it.’

‘Son-in-law.’

‘Well, well, well! But you know, if you haven’t ever served in that
capacity, you of course can’t furnish recommendations of a sort to
satisfy the conditions of the contract, and so——’

‘Try me—oh, do, I beg of you! Only just try me thirty or forty years,
and if——’

‘Oh, well, all right; it’s but a little thing to ask. Take her along.’

Happy, we too? There are not words enough in the unabridged to describe
it. And when London got the whole history, a day or two later, of my
month’s adventures with that bank-note, and how they ended, did London
talk, and have a good time? Yes.

My Portia’s papa took that friendly and hospitable bill back to the Bank
of England and cashed it; then the Bank cancelled it and made him a
present of it, and he gave it to us at our wedding, and it has always
hung in its frame in the sacredest place in our home, ever since. For it
gave me my Portia. But for it I could not have remained in London, would
not have appeared at the minister’s, never should have met her. And so I
always say, ‘Yes, it’s a million-pounder, as you see; but it never made
but one purchase in its life, and _then_ got the article for only about
a tenth part of its value.’




                          _MENTAL TELEGRAPHY_

                     _A MANUSCRIPT WITH A HISTORY_


  NOTE TO THE EDITOR.—By glancing over the enclosed bundle of rusty
  old manuscript, you will perceive that I once made a great
  discovery: the discovery that certain sorts of things which, from
  the beginning of the world, had always been regarded as merely
  ‘curious coincidences’—that is to say, accidents—were no more
  accidental than is the sending and receiving of a telegram an
  accident. I made this discovery sixteen or seventeen years ago, and
  gave it a name—‘Mental Telegraphy.’ It is the same thing around the
  outer edges of which the Psychical Society of England began to grope
  (and play with) four or five years ago, and which they named
  ‘Telepathy.’ Within the last two or three years they have penetrated
  towards the heart of the matter, however, and have found out that
  mind can act upon mind in a quite detailed and elaborate way over
  vast stretches of land and water. And they have succeeded in doing,
  by their great credit and influence, what I could never have
  done—they have convinced the world that mental telegraphy is not a
  jest, but a fact, and that it is a thing not rare, but exceedingly
  common. They have done our age a service—and a very great service, I
  think.

  In this old manuscript you will find mention of an extraordinary
  experience of mine in the mental telegraphic line, of date about the
  year 1874 or 1875—the one concerning the Great Bonanza book. It was
  this experience that called my attention to the matter under
  consideration. I began to keep a record, after that, of such
  experiences of mine as seemed explicable by the theory that minds
  telegraph thoughts to each other. In 1878 I went to Germany and
  began to write the book called _A Tramp Abroad_. The bulk of this
  old batch of manuscript was written at that time and for that book.
  But I removed it when I came to revise the volume for the press; for
  I feared that the public would treat the thing as a joke and throw
  it aside, whereas I was in earnest.

  At home, eight or ten years ago, I tried to creep in under shelter
  of an authority grave enough to protect the article from
  ridicule—the _North American Review_. But Mr. Metcalf was too wary
  for me. He said that to treat these mere ‘coincidences’ seriously
  was a thing which the _Review_ couldn’t dare to do; that I must put
  either my name or my _nom de plume_ to the article, and thus save
  the _Review_ from harm. But I couldn’t consent to that; it would be
  the surest possible way to defeat my desire that the public should
  receive the thing seriously, and be willing to stop and give it some
  fair degree of attention. So I pigeon-holed the MS., because I could
  not get it published anonymously.

  Now see how the world has moved since then. These small experiences
  of mine, which were too formidable at that time for admission to a
  grave magazine—if the magazine must allow them to appear as
  something above and beyond ‘accidents’ and ‘coincidences’—are
  trifling and commonplace now, since the flood of light recently cast
  upon mental telegraphy by the intelligent labours of the Psychical
  Society. But I think they are worth publishing, just to show what
  harmless and ordinary matters were considered dangerous and
  incredible eight or ten years ago.

  As I have said, the bulk of this old manuscript was written in 1878;
  a later part was written from time to time, two, three, and four
  years afterwards. The ‘Postscript’ I add to-day.

May, ‘78.—Another of those apparently trifling things has happened to me
which puzzle and perplex all men every now and then, keep them thinking
an hour or two, and leave their minds barren of explanation or solution
at last. Here it is—and it looks inconsequential enough, I am obliged to
say. A few days ago I said: ‘It must be that Frank Millet doesn’t know
we are in Germany, or he would have written long before this. I have
been on the point of dropping him a line at least a dozen times during
the past six weeks, but I always decided to wait a day or two longer,
and see if we shouldn’t hear from him. But now I _will_ write.’ And so I
did. I directed the letter to Paris, and thought, ‘_Now_ we shall hear
from him before this letter is fifty miles from Heidelberg—it always
happens so.’

True enough; but _why_ should it? That is the puzzling part of it. We
are always talking about letters ‘crossing’ each other, for that is one
of the very commonest accidents of this life. We call it ‘accident,’ but
perhaps we misname it. We have the instinct a dozen times a year that
the letter we are writing is going to ‘cross’ the other person’s letter;
and if the reader will rack his memory a little he will recall the fact
that this presentiment had strength enough to it to make him cut his
letter down to a decided briefness, because it would be a waste of time
to write a letter which was going to ‘cross,’ and hence be a useless
letter. I think that in my experience this instinct has generally come
to me in cases where I had put off my letter a good while in the hope
that the other person would write.

Yes, as I was saying, I had waited five or six weeks; then I wrote but
three lines, because I felt and seemed to know that a letter from Millet
would cross mine. And so it did. He wrote the same day that I wrote. The
letters crossed each other. His letter went to Berlin, care of the
American minister, who sent it to me. In this letter Millet said he had
been trying for six weeks to stumble upon somebody who knew my German
address, and at last the idea had occurred to him that a letter sent to
the care of the embassy at Berlin might possibly find me.

Maybe it was an ‘accident’ that he finally determined to write me at the
same moment that I finally determined to write him, but I think not.

With me the most irritating thing has been to wait a tedious time in a
purely business matter, hoping that the other party will do the writing,
and then sit down and do it myself, perfectly satisfied that that other
man is sitting down at the same moment to write a letter which will
‘cross’ mine. And yet one must go on writing, just the same; because if
you get up from your table and postpone, that other man will do the same
thing, exactly as if you two were harnessed together like the Siamese
twins, and must duplicate each other’s movements.

Several months before I left home a New York firm did some work about
the house for me, and did not make a success of it, as it seemed to me.
When the bill came, I wrote and said I wanted the work perfected before
I paid. They replied that they were very busy, but that as soon as they
could spare the proper man the thing should be done. I waited more than
two months, enduring as patiently as possible the companionship of bells
which would fire away of their own accord sometimes when nobody was
touching them, and at other times wouldn’t ring though you struck the
button with a sledgehammer. Many a time I got ready to write and then
postponed it; but at last I sat down one evening and poured out my grief
to the extent of a page or so, and then cut my letter suddenly short,
because a strong instinct told me that the firm had begun to move in the
matter. When I came down to breakfast next morning the postman had not
yet taken my letter away, but the electrical man had been there, done
his work, and was gone again! He had received his orders the previous
evening from his employers, and had come up by the night train.

If that was an ‘accident,’ it took about three months to get it up in
good shape.

One evening last summer I arrived in Washington, registered at the
Arlington Hotel, and went to my room. I read and smoked until ten
o’clock; then, finding I was not yet sleepy, I thought I would take a
breath of fresh air. So I went forth in the rain, and tramped through
one street after another in an aimless and enjoyable way. I knew that
Mr. O——, a friend of mine, was in town, and I wished I might run across
him; but I did not propose to hunt for him at midnight, especially as I
did not know where he was stopping. Towards twelve o’clock the streets
had become so deserted that I felt lonesome; so I stepped into a cigar
shop far up the Avenue, and remained there fifteen minutes listening to
some bummers discussing national politics. Suddenly the spirit of
prophecy came upon me, and I said to myself, “Now I will go out at this
door, turn to the left, walk ten steps, and meet Mr. O—— face to face.’
I did it, too! I could not see his face, because he had an umbrella
before it, and it was pretty dark, anyhow, but he interrupted the man he
was walking and talking with, and I recognised his voice and stopped
him.

That I should step out there and stumble upon Mr. O—— was nothing, but
that I should know beforehand that I was going to do it was a good deal.
It is a very curious thing when you come to look at it. I stood far
within the cigar shop when I delivered my prophecy; I walked about five
steps to the door, opened it, closed it after me, walked down a flight
of three steps to the sidewalk, then turned to the left and walked four
or five more, and found my man. I repeat that in itself the thing was
nothing; but to know it would happen so beforehand, wasn’t that really
curious ?

I have criticised absent people so often, and then discovered, to my
humiliation, that I was talking with their relatives, that I have grown
superstitious about that sort of thing and dropped it. How like an idiot
one feels after a blunder like that!

We are always mentioning people, and in that very instant they appear
before us. We laugh, and say, ‘Speak of the devil,’ and so forth, and
there we drop it, considering it an ‘accident.’ It is a cheap and
convenient way of disposing of a grave and very puzzling mystery. The
fact is, it does seem to happen too often to be an accident.

Now I come to the oddest thing that ever happened to me. Two or three
years ago I was lying in bed, idly musing, one morning—it was the 2nd of
March—when suddenly a red-hot new idea came whistling down into my camp,
and exploded with such comprehensive effectiveness as to sweep the
vicinity clean of rubbishy reflections, and fill the air with their dust
and flying fragments. This idea, stated in simple phrase, was that the
time was ripe and the market ready for a certain book; a book which
ought to be written at once; a book which must command attention and be
of peculiar interest—to wit, a book about the Nevada silver mines. The
‘Great Bonanza’ was a new wonder then, and everybody was talking about
it. It seemed to me that the person best qualified to write this book
was Mr. William H. Wright, a journalist of Virginia, Nevada, by whose
side I had scribbled many months when I was a reporter there ten or
twelve years before. He might be alive still; he might be dead; I could
not tell; but I would write him, anyway. I began by merely and modestly
suggesting that he make such a book; but my interest grew as I went on,
and I ventured to map out what I thought ought to be the plan of the
work, he being an old friend, and not given to taking good intentions
for ill. I even dealt with details, and suggested the order and sequence
which they should follow. I was about to put the manuscript in an
envelope, when the thought occurred to me that if this book should be
written at my suggestion, and then no publisher happened to want it, I
should feel uncomfortable; so I concluded to keep my letter back until I
should have secured a publisher. I pigeon-holed my document, and dropped
a note to my own publisher, asking him to name a day for a business
consultation. He was out of town on a far journey. My note remained
unanswered, and at the end of three or four days the whole matter had
passed out of my mind. On the 9th of March the postman brought three or
four letters, and among them a thick one whose superscription was in a
hand which seemed dimly familiar to me. I could not ‘place’ it at first,
but presently I succeeded. Then I said to a visiting relative who was
present:

‘Now I will do a miracle. I will tell you everything this letter
contains—date, signature, and all—without breaking the seal. It is from
a Mr. Wright, of Virginia, Nevada, and is dated March 2,—seven days ago.
Mr. Wright proposes to make a book about the silver mines and the Great
Bonanza, and asks what I, as a friend, think of the idea. He says his
subjects are to be so-and-so, their order and sequence so-and-so, and he
will close with a history of the chief feature of the book, the Great
Bonanza.’

I opened the letter, and showed that I had stated the date and the
contents correctly. Mr. Wright’s letter simply contained what my own
letter, written on the same date, contained, and mine still lay in its
pigeon-hole, where it had been lying during the seven days since it was
written.

There was no clairvoyance about this, if I rightly comprehend what
clairvoyance is. I think the clairvoyant professes to actually see
concealed writing, and read it off word for word. This was not my case.
I only seemed to know, and to know absolutely the contents of the letter
in detail and due order, but I had to _word_ them myself. I translated
them, so to speak, out of Wright’s language into my own.

Wright’s letter and the one which I had written to him but never sent
were in substance the same.

Necessarily this could not come by accident; such elaborate accidents
cannot happen. Chance might have duplicated one or two of the details,
but she would have broken down on the rest. I could not doubt—there was
no tenable reason for doubting—that Mr. Wright’s mind and mine had been
in close and crystal-clear communication with each other across three
thousand miles of mountain and desert on the morning of March 2. I did
not consider that both minds _originated_ that succession of ideas, but
that one mind originated them, and simply telegraphed them to the other.
I was curious to know which brain was the telegrapher and which the
receiver, so I wrote and asked for particulars. Mr. Wright’s reply
showed that his mind had done the originating and telegraphing and mine
the receiving. Mark that significant thing, now; consider for a moment
how many a splendid ‘original’ idea has been unconsciously stolen from a
man three thousand miles away! If one should question that this is so,
let him look into the Cyclopædia, and con once more that curious thing
in the history of inventions which has puzzled everyone so much—that is,
the frequency with which the same machine or other contrivance has been
invented at the same time by several persons in different quarters of
the globe. The world was without an electric telegraph for several
thousand years; then Professor Henry, the American, Wheatstone in
England, Morse on the sea, and a German in Munich, all invented it at
the same time. The discovery of certain ways of applying steam was made
in two or three countries in the same year. Is it not possible that
inventors are constantly and unwittingly stealing each other’s ideas
whilst they stand thousands of miles asunder?

Last spring a literary friend of mine,[1] who lived a hundred miles
away, paid me a visit, and in the course of our talk he said he had made
a discovery—conceived an entirely new idea—one which certainly had never
been used in literature. He told me what it was. I handed him a
manuscript, and said he would find substantially the same idea in that—a
manuscript which I had written a week before. The idea had been in my
mind since the previous November; it had only entered his while I was
putting it on paper, a week gone by. He had not yet written his; so he
left it unwritten, and gracefully made over all his right and title in
the idea to me.

Footnote 1:

  W. D. Howells.

The following statement, which I have clipped from a newspaper, is true.
I had the facts from Mr. Howells’s lips when the episode was new:

‘A remarkable story of a literary coincidence is told of Mr. Howells’s
“Atlantic Monthly” serial, “Dr. Breen’s Practice.” A lady of Rochester,
New York, contributed to the magazine, after “Dr. Breen’s Practice” was
in type, a short story which so much resembled Mr. Howells’s that he
felt it necessary to call upon her and explain the situation of affairs
in order that no charge of plagiarism might be preferred against him. He
showed her the proof-sheets of his story, and satisfied her that the
similarity between her work and his was one of those strange
coincidences which have from time to time occurred in the literary
world.’

I had read portions of Mr. Howells’s story, both in manuscript and in
proof, before the lady offered her contribution to the magazine.

Here is another case. I clip it from a newspaper:

‘The republication of Miss Alcott’s novel “Moods” recalls to a writer in
the Boston Post a singular coincidence which was brought to light before
the book was first published: “Miss Anna M. Crane, of Baltimore,
published ‘Emily Chester,’ a novel which was pronounced a very striking
and strong story. A comparison of this book with ‘Moods’ showed that the
two writers, though entire strangers to each other, and living hundreds
of miles apart, had both chosen the same subject for their novels, had
followed almost the same line of treatment up to a certain point, where
the parallel ceased, and the dénouements were entirely opposite. And
even more curious, the leading characters in both books had identically
the same names, so that the names in Miss Alcott’s novel had to be
changed. Then the book was published by Loring.”’

Four or five times within my recollection there has been a lively
newspaper war in this country over poems whose authorship was claimed by
two or three different people at the same time. There was a war of this
kind over ‘Nothing to Wear,’ ‘Beautiful Snow,’ ‘Rock Me to Sleep,
Mother,’ and also over one of Mr. Will Carleton’s early ballads, I
think. These were all blameless cases of unintentional and unwitting
mental telegraphy, I judge.

A word more as to Mr. Wright. He had had his book in his mind some time;
consequently he, and not I, had originated the idea of it. The subject
was entirely foreign to my thoughts; I was wholly absorbed in other
things. Yet this friend, whom I had not seen and had hardly thought of
for eleven years, was able to shoot his thoughts at me across three
thousand miles of country, and fill my head with them, to the exclusion
of every other interest, in a single moment. He had begun his letter
after finishing his work on the morning paper—a little after three
o’clock, he said. When it was three in the morning in Nevada it was
about six in Hartford, where I lay awake thinking about nothing in
particular; and just about that time his ideas came pouring into my head
from across the continent, and I got up and put them on paper, under the
impression that they were my own original thoughts.

I have never seen any mesmeric or clairvoyant performances or spiritual
manifestations which were in the least degree convincing—a fact which is
not of consequence, since my opportunities have been meagre; but I am
forced to believe that one human mind (still inhabiting the flesh) can
communicate with another, over any sort of a distance, and without any
_artificial_ preparation of ‘sympathetic conditions’ to act as a
transmitting agent. I suppose that when the sympathetic conditions
happen to exist the two minds communicate with each other, and that
otherwise they don’t; and I suppose that if the sympathetic conditions
could be kept up right along, the two minds would continue to correspond
without limit as to time.

Now there is that curious thing which happens to everybody: suddenly a
succession of thoughts or sensations flock in upon you, which startles
you with the weird idea that you have ages ago experienced just this
succession of thoughts or sensations in a previous existence. The
previous existence is possible, no doubt, but I am persuaded that the
solution of this hoary mystery lies not there, but in the fact that some
far-off stranger has been telegraphing his thoughts and sensations into
your consciousness, and that he stopped because some counter-current or
other obstruction intruded and broke the line of communication. Perhaps
they seem repetitions to you because they _are_ repetitions got at
second hand from the other man. Possibly Mr. Brown, the ‘mind-reader,’
reads other people’s minds, possibly he does not; but I know of a surety
that I have read another man’s mind, and therefore I do not see why Mr.
Brown shouldn’t do the like also.

I wrote the foregoing about three years ago, in Heidelberg, and laid the
manuscript aside, purposing to add to it instances of mind-telegraphing
from time to time as they should fall under my experience. Meantime the
‘crossing’ of letters has been so frequent as to become monotonous.
However, I have managed to get something useful out of this hint; for
now, when I get tired of waiting upon a man whom I very much wish to
hear from, I sit down and _compel_ him to write, whether he wants to or
not; that is to say, I sit down and write him, and then tear my letter
up, satisfied that my act has forced him to write me at the same moment.
I do not need to mail my letter—the writing it is the only essential
thing.

Of course I have grown superstitious about this letter-crossing
business—this was natural. We stayed awhile in Venice after leaving
Heidelberg. One day I was going down the Grand Canal in a gondola, when
I heard a shout behind me, and looked around to see what the matter was;
a gondola was rapidly following, and the gondolier was making signs to
me to stop. I did so, and the pursuing boat ranged up alongside. There
was an American lady in it—a resident of Venice. She was in a good deal
of distress. She said:

‘There’s a New York gentleman and his wife at the Hotel Britannia who
arrived a week ago, expecting to find news of their son, whom they have
heard nothing about during eight months. There was no news. The lady is
down sick with despair; the gentleman can’t sleep or eat. Their son
arrived at San Francisco eight months ago, and announced the fact in a
letter to his parents the same day. That is the last trace of him. The
parents have been in Europe ever since; but their trip has been spoiled,
for they have occupied their time simply in drifting restlessly from
place to place, and writing letters everywhere and to everybody, begging
for news of their son; but the mystery remains as dense as ever. Now the
gentleman wants to stop writing and go to cabling. He wants to cable San
Francisco. He has never done it before, because he is afraid of—of he
doesn’t know what—death of his son, no doubt. But he wants somebody to
_advise_ him to cable—wants me to do it. Now I simply can’t; for if no
news came that mother yonder would die. So I have chased you up in order
to get you to support me in urging him to be patient, and put the thing
off a week or two longer; it may be the saving of this lady. Come along;
let’s not lose any time.’

So I went along, but I had a programme of my own. When I was introduced
to the gentleman I said: ‘I have some superstitions, but they are worthy
of respect. If you will cable San Francisco immediately, you will hear
news of your son inside of twenty-four hours. I don’t know that you will
get the news from San Francisco, but you will get it from somewhere. The
only necessary thing is to cable—that is all. The news will come within
twenty-four hours. Cable Pekin, if you prefer; there is no choice in
this matter. This delay is all occasioned by your not cabling long ago,
when you were first moved to do it.’

It seems absurd that this gentleman should have been cheered up by this
nonsense, but he was; he brightened up at once, and sent his cablegram;
and next day, at noon, when a long letter arrived from his lost son, the
man was as grateful to me as if I had really had something to do with
the hurrying up of that letter. The son had shipped from San Francisco
in a sailing vessel, and his letter was written from the first port he
touched at, months afterwards.

This incident argues nothing, and is valueless. I insert it only to show
how strong is the superstition which ‘letter-crossing’ has bred in me. I
was so sure that a cablegram sent to any place, no matter where, would
defeat itself by ‘crossing’ the incoming news, that my confidence was
able to raise up a hopeless man, and make him cheery and hopeful.

But here are two or three incidents which come strictly under the head
of mind-telegraphing. One Monday morning, about a year ago, the mail
came in, and I picked up one of the letters, and said to a friend:
‘Without opening this letter I will tell you what it says. It is from
Mrs. ——, and she says she was in New York last Saturday, and was
purposing to run up here in the afternoon train and surprise us, but at
the last moment changed her mind and returned westward to her home.’

I was right; my details were exactly correct. Yet we had had no
suspicion that Mrs. —— was coming to New York, or that she had even a
remote intention of visiting us.

I smoke a good deal—that is to say, all the time—so, during seven years,
I have tried to keep a box of matches handy, behind a picture on the
mantelpiece; but I have had to take it out in trying, because George
(coloured), who makes the fires and lights the gas, always uses my
matches and never replaces them. Commands and persuasions have gone for
nothing with him all these seven years. One day last summer, when our
family had been away from home several months, I said to a member of the
household:

‘Now, with all this long holiday, and nothing in the way to interrupt——’

‘I can finish the sentence for you,’ said the member of the household.

‘Do it, then,’ said I.

‘George ought to be able, by practising, to learn to let those matches
alone.’

It was correctly done. That was what I was going to say. Yet until that
moment George and the matches had not been in my mind for three months,
and it is plain that the part of the sentence which I uttered offers not
the least cue or suggestion of what I was purposing to follow it with.

My mother[2] is descended from the younger of two English brothers named
Lambton, who settled in this country a few generations ago. The
tradition goes that the elder of the two eventually fell heir to a
certain estate in England (now an earldom), and died right away. This
has always been the way with our family. They always die when they could
make anything by not doing it. The two Lambtons left plenty of Lambtons
behind them; and when at last, about fifty years ago, the English
baronetcy was exalted to an earldom, the great tribe of American
Lambtons began to bestir themselves—that is, those descended from the
elder branch. Ever since that day one or another of these has been
fretting his life uselessly away with schemes to get at his ‘rights.’
The present ‘rightful earl’—I mean the American one—used to write me
occasionally, and try to interest me in his projected raids upon the
title and estates by offering me a share in the latter portion of the
spoil; but I have always managed to resist his temptations.

Footnote 2:

  She was still living when this was written.

Well, one day last summer I was lying under a tree, thinking about
nothing in particular, when an absurd idea flashed into my head, and I
said to a member of the household, ‘Suppose I should live to be
ninety-two, and dumb and blind and toothless, and just as I was gasping
out what was left of me on my death-bed——’

‘Wait, I will finish the sentence,’ said the member of the household.

‘Go on,’ said I.

‘Somebody should rush in with a document, and say, “All the other heirs
are dead, and you are the Earl of Durham!”’

That is truly what I was going to say. Yet until that moment the subject
had not entered my mind or been referred to in my hearing for months
before. A few years ago this thing would have astounded me, but the like
could not much surprise me now, though it happened every week; for I
think I _know_ now that mind can communicate accurately with mind
without the aid of the slow and clumsy vehicle of speech.

This age does seem to have exhausted invention nearly; still, it has one
important contract on its hands yet—the invention of the _phrenophone_;
that is to say, a method whereby the communicating of mind with mind may
be brought under command and reduced to certainty and system. The
telegraph and the telephone are going to become too slow and wordy for
our needs. We must have the _thought_ itself shot into our minds from a
distance; then, if we need to put it into words, we can do that tedious
work at our leisure. Doubtless the something which conveys our thoughts
through the air from brain to brain is a finer and subtler form of
electricity, and all we need do is to find out how to capture it and how
to force it to do its work, as we have had to do in the case of the
electric currents. Before the day of telegraphs neither one of these
marvels would have seemed any easier to achieve than the other.

While I am writing this, doubtless somebody on the other side of the
globe is writing it too. The question is, am I inspiring him or is he
inspiring me? I cannot answer that; but that these thoughts have been
passing through somebody else’s mind all the time I have been setting
them down I have no sort of doubt.

I will close this paper with a remark which I found some time ago in
Boswell’s ‘Johnson’:

‘Voltaire’s “Candide” is wonderfully similar in its plan and conduct to
Johnson’s “Rasselas”; insomuch that I have heard Johnson say that if
they had not been published so closely one after the other that there
was not time for imitation, _it would have been in vain to deny that the
scheme of that which came latest was taken from the other_.’

The two men were widely separated from each other at the time, and the
sea lay between.


                               POSTSCRIPT

In the ‘Atlantic’ for June 1882, Mr. John Fiske refers to the
often-quoted Darwin-and-Wallace ‘coincidence’:

‘I alluded, just now, to the “unforeseen circumstance” which led Mr.
Darwin in 1859 to break his long silence, and to write and publish the
“Origin of Species.” This circumstance served, no less than the
extraordinary success of his book, to show how ripe the minds of men had
become for entertaining such views as those which Mr. Darwin propounded.
In 1858 Mr. Wallace, who was then engaged in studying the natural
history of the Malay Archipelago, sent to Mr. Darwin (as to the man most
likely to understand him) a paper in which he sketched the outlines of a
theory identical with that upon which Mr. Darwin had so long been at
work. The same sequence of observed facts and inferences that had led
Mr. Darwin to the discovery of Natural Selection and its consequences
had led Mr. Wallace to the very threshold of the same discovery; but in
Mr. Wallace’s mind the theory had by no means been wrought out to the
same degree of completeness to which it had been wrought in the mind of
Mr. Darwin. In the preface to his charming book on Natural Selection,
Mr. Wallace, with rare modesty and candour, acknowledges that whatever
value his speculations may have had, they have been utterly surpassed in
richness and cogency of proof by those of Mr. Darwin. This is no doubt
true, and Mr. Wallace has done such good work in further illustration of
the theory that he can well afford to rest content with the second place
in the first announcement of it.

‘The coincidence, however, between Mr. Wallace’s conclusions and those
of Mr. Darwin was very remarkable. But, after all, coincidences of this
sort have not been uncommon in the history of scientific inquiry. Nor is
it at all surprising that they should occur now and then, when we
remember that a great and pregnant discovery must always be concerned
with some question which many of the foremost minds in the world are
busy thinking about. It was so with the discovery of the differential
calculus, and again with the discovery of the planet Neptune. It was so
with the interpretation of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, and with the
establishment of the undulatory theory of light. It was so, to a
considerable extent, with the introduction of the new chemistry, with
the discovery of the mechanical equivalent of heat, and the whole
doctrine of the correlation of forces. It was so with the invention of
the electric telegraph and with the discovery of spectrum analysis. And
it is not at all strange that it should have been so with the doctrine
of the origin of species through natural selection.’

He thinks these ‘coincidences’ were apt to happen because the matters
from which they sprang were matters which many of the foremost minds
in the world were busy thinking about. But perhaps one man in each
case did the telegraphing to the others. The aberrations which gave
Leverrier the idea that there must be a planet of such and such mass
and such and such an orbit hidden from sight out yonder in the remote
abysses of space were not new; they had been noticed by astronomers
for generations. Then why should it happen to occur to three people,
widely separated—Leverrier, Mrs. Somerville, and Adams—to suddenly go
to worrying about those aberrations all at the same time, and set
themselves to work to find out what caused them, and to measure and
weigh an invisible planet, and calculate its orbit, and hunt it down
and catch it?—a strange project which nobody but they had ever thought
of before. If one astronomer had invented that odd and happy project
fifty years before, don’t you think he would have telegraphed it to
several others without knowing it?

But now I come to a puzzler. How is it that _inanimate_ objects are able
to affect the mind? They seem to do that. However, I wish to throw in a
parenthesis first—just a reference to a thing everybody is familiar
with—the experience of receiving a clear and particular _answer_ to your
telegram before your telegram has reached the sender of the answer. That
is a case where your telegram has gone straight from your brain to the
man it was meant for, far outstripping the wire’s slow electricity, and
it is an exercise of mental telegraphy which is as common as dining. To
return to the influence of inanimate things. In the cases of
non-professional clairvoyance examined by the Psychical Society the
clairvoyant has usually been blindfolded, then some object which has
been touched or worn by a person is placed in his hand; the clairvoyant
immediately describes that person, and goes on and gives a history of
some event with which the text object has been connected. If the
inanimate object is able to affect and inform the clairvoyant’s mind,
maybe it can do the same when it is working in the interest of mental
telegraphy. Once a lady in the West wrote me that her son was coming to
New York to remain three weeks, and would pay me a visit if invited, and
she gave me his address. I mislaid the letter, and forgot all about the
matter till the three weeks were about up. Then a sudden and fiery
irruption of remorse burst up in my brain that illuminated all the
region round about, and I sat down at once and wrote to the lady and
asked for that lost address. But, upon reflection, I judged that the
stirring up of my recollection had not been an accident, so I added a
postscript to say, never mind, I should get a letter from her son before
night. And I did get it; for the letter was already in the town,
although not delivered yet. It had influenced me somehow. I have had so
many experiences of this sort—a dozen of them at least—that I am nearly
persuaded that inanimate objects do not confine their activities to
helping the clairvoyant, but do every now and then give the mental
telegraphist a lift.

The case of mental telegraphy which I am coming to now comes under I
don’t exactly know what head. I clipped it from one of our local papers
six or eight years ago. I know the details to be right and true, for the
story was told to me in the same form by one of the two persons
concerned (a clergyman of Hartford) at the time that the curious thing
happened:

‘A REMARKABLE COINCIDENCE.—Strange coincidences make the most
interesting of stories and most curious of studies. Nobody can quite say
how they come about, but everybody appreciates the fact when they do
come, and it is seldom that any more complete and curious coincidence is
recorded of minor importance than the following, which is absolutely
true and occurred in this city:

‘At the time of the building of one of the finest residences of
Hartford, which is still a very new house, a local firm supplied the
wall-paper for certain rooms, contracting both to furnish and to put on
the paper. It happened that they did not calculate the size of one room
exactly right, and the paper of the design selected for it fell short
just half a roll. They asked for delay enough to send on to the
manufacturers for what was needed, and were told that there was no
especial hurry. It happened that the manufacturers had none on hand, and
had destroyed the blocks from which it was printed. They wrote that they
had a full list of the dealers to whom they had sold that paper, and
that they would write to each of these, and get from some of them a
roll. It might involve a delay of a couple of weeks, but they would
surely get it.

‘In the course of time came a letter saying that, to their great
surprise, they could not find a single roll. Such a thing was very
unusual, but in this case it had so happened. Accordingly the local firm
asked for further time, saying they would write to their own customers
who had bought of that pattern, and would get the piece from them. But
to their surprise, this effort also failed. A long time had now elapsed,
and there was no use of delaying any longer. They had contracted to
paper the room, and their only course was to take off that which was
insufficient and put on some other of which there was enough to go
around. Accordingly, at length a man was sent out to remove the paper.
He got his apparatus ready, and was about to begin work, under the
direction of the owner of the building, when the latter was for the
moment called away. The house was large and very interesting, and so
many people had rambled about it that finally admission had been refused
by a sign at the door. On the occasion, however, when a gentleman had
knocked and asked for leave to look about, the owner, being on the
premises, had been sent for to reply to the request in person. That was
the call that for the moment delayed the final preparations. The
gentleman went to the door and admitted the stranger, saying he would
show him about the house, but first must return for a moment to that
room to finish his directions there, and he told the curious story about
the paper as they went on. They entered the room together, and the first
thing the stranger, who lived fifty miles away, said on looking about
was, “Why, I have that very paper on a room in my house, and I have an
extra roll of it laid away, which is at your service.” In a few days the
wall was papered according to the original contract. Had not the owner
been at the house, the stranger would not have been admitted; had he
called a day later, it would have been too late; had not the facts been
almost accidentally told to him, he would probably have said nothing of
the paper, and so on. The exact fitting of all the circumstances is
something very remarkable, and makes one of those stories that seem
hardly accidental in their nature.’

Something that happened the other day brought my hoary MS. to mind, and
that is how I came to dig it out from its dusty pigeon-hole grave for
publication. The thing that happened was a question. A lady asked it:
‘Have you ever had a vision—when awake?’ I was about to answer promptly,
when the last two words of the question began to grow and spread and
swell, and presently they attained to vast dimensions. She did not know
that they were important; and I did not at first, but I soon saw that
they were putting me on the track of the solution of a mystery which had
perplexed me a good deal. You will see what I mean when I get down to
it. Ever since the English Society for Psychical Research began its
searching investigations of ghost stories, haunted houses, and
apparitions of the living and the dead, I have read their pamphlets with
avidity as fast as they arrived. Now one of their commonest inquiries of
a dreamer or a vision-seer is, ‘Are you sure you were awake at the
time?’ If the man can’t say he is sure he was awake, a doubt falls upon
his tale right there. But if he is positive he was awake, and offers
reasonable evidence to substantiate it, the fact counts largely for the
credibility of his story. It does with the Society, and it did with me
until that lady asked me the above question the other day.

The question set me to considering, and brought me to the conclusion
that you can be asleep—at least wholly unconscious—for a time, and not
suspect that it has happened, and not have any way to prove that it
_has_ happened. A memorable case was in my mind. About a year ago I was
standing on the porch one day, when I saw a man coming up the walk. He
was a stranger, and I hoped he would ring and carry his business into
the house without stopping to argue with me; he would have to pass the
front door to get to me, and I hoped he wouldn’t take the trouble; to
help, I tried to look like a stranger myself—it often works. I was
looking straight at that man; he had got to within ten feet of the door
and within twenty-five feet of me—and suddenly he disappeared. It was as
astounding as if a church should vanish from before your face and leave
nothing behind it but a vacant lot. I was unspeakably delighted. I had
seen an apparition at last, with my own eyes, in broad daylight. I made
up my mind to write an account of it to the Society. I ran to where the
spectre had been, to make sure he was playing fair, then I ran to the
other end of the porch, scanning the open grounds as I went. No,
everything was perfect; he couldn’t have escaped without my seeing him;
he was an apparition, without the slightest doubt, and I would write him
up before he was cold. I ran, hot with excitement, and let myself in
with a latch-key. When I stepped into the hall my lungs collapsed and my
heart stood still. For there sat that same apparition in a chair, all
alone, and as quiet and reposeful as if he had come to stay a year! The
shock kept me dumb for a moment or two, then I said, ‘Did you come in at
that door?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did _you_ open it, or did you ring?’

‘I rang, and the coloured man opened it.’

I said to myself: ‘This is astonishing. It takes George all of two
minutes to answer the doorbell when he is in a hurry, and I have never
seen him in a hurry. How _did_ this man stand two minutes at that door,
within five steps of me, and I did not see him?’

I should have gone to my grave puzzling over that riddle but for that
lady’s chance question last week: ‘Have you ever had a vision—when
awake?’ It stands explained now. During at least sixty seconds that day
I was asleep, or at least totally unconscious, without suspecting it. In
that interval the man came to my immediate vicinity, rang, stood there
and waited, then entered and closed the door, and I did not see him and
did not hear the door slam.

If he had slipped around the house in that interval and gone into the
cellar—he had time enough—I should have written him up for the Society,
and magnified him, and gloated over him, and hurrahed about him, and
thirty yoke of oxen could not have pulled the belief out of me that I
was of the favoured ones of the earth, and had seen a vision—while wide
awake.

Now, how are you to tell when you are awake? What are you to go by?
People bite their fingers to find out. Why, you can do that in a dream.




                         _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,[3]
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.’

Footnote 3:

  The name here given is a substitute for the one actually attached to
  the pamphlet.

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
Shakspeare 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 naïve
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
recognised 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
pumicestone, 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 uses 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
realisation 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 shovelled 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 had 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 favourite 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 traveller
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[4]—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 patroniser 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 honourable 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!”’

Footnote 4:

  Further on it will be seen that he is a country expert on the fiddle,
  and has a three-township fame.

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 recognisable. 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
recognise 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 recognisable, 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 realised. 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 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 favour 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
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 civilised 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 his 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 towards 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 travelled
among the uncivilised 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 honour, sir, that I will never disgrace the
Institution or those who have placed you in this honourable 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 surprises—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 road-side,
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 endeavoured 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 afterwards, 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 favourite 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 worshipped.’

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 tantalising 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 philosophised 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 worshipped. 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 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 wooes. 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 you not, 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 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 fulness
of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird may stretch its
wings towards 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 favour
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 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 sunset 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 synopsise McClintock is to reduce a
sky-flushing conflagration to dull embers, it is to reduce barbaric
splendour 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 synopsise.

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 parlour. 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 towards 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 be 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 signifying 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 neighbour’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 forth 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[5] 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.’

Footnote 5:

  It is a crowbar.

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 blackguarded Mr. Valeer with vigour 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 sends 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 ought to 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 towards 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 his 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 attend such divine operations.’

There is but one Homer, there was but one Shakspeare, there is but one
McClintock—and his immortal book is before you. Homer could not have
written this book, Shakspeare 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.




                                  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 are set forth in her form and
her 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 sepulchre was the first to approach it,
and the last to depart from its awful yet sublime scene. Even here, in
this highly-favoured 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 colours, 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 energise 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 towards 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 fulness of a tender and
devoted heart, where the noblest, the purest, and the most elevated and
refined feelings are matured, and developed in those many kind offices
which invariably make her character.

In the room of sorrow and sickness, this unequalled characteristic may
always be 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 aggrandisement, 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 the 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 realised 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 trait 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 lustre 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 still she is
not conquered, she has not given up to the harlequin of disappointments,
her energies have not become clouded in the last moment 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, sheds 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 mid-day 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 colours; 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 favourite 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,
brutalised 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 her 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 condescend 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 colourings 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 Melinda—who are
always fishing for pretty compliments—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 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 endeavoured 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 traveller.
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 favourite 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 traveller 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 patroniser 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 honourable 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 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 realised. 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 favour 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
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 civilised 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 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 towards 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 travelled among the
uncivilised 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 honour, sir, that I will never disgrace the
Institution, or those who have placed you in this honourable 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.

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 road-side,
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. 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 endeavoured 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 afterwards, 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 favourite 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 worshipped.

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 you not, 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 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 fulness
of my hopes that I anticipate better days. The bird may stretch its
wings towards 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 favour 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
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. 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 humour; 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 endeavoured to prosecute his studies, and reasonably
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 prophecy 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 stigmatise 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 have 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 word 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 vigour, 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 parlour 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 irresistible temptation?
What society condemns the practice, but a cold, heartless, uncivilised
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
towards 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 had 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 favour 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 to be?’ inquired Elfonzo.
‘By all means,’ answered Ambulinia; ‘a rival, sir, you would fancy in
your own mind; but let me say to 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 honour 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 circumstance added more to 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 he 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 racehorse, hurry through the blast of the storm,
to the residence of her father, without being recognised. 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
meditation, 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 conclusion? No, I see that I have nothing to
hope for, but everything to 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 encompass; 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 thus 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 that 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
for ever 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 towards 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
towards 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, aid, oh aid my recollection, while I
endeavour to trace the vicissitudes of a life devoted in endeavouring 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 be 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 to-night, 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 to-night, 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 loving.

_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 honoured 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 honour, 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 dost 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, is he 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 greet 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 to-morrow; 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 to 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, oh, speak again! Gone,
gone—yes, for ever gone! Farcillo, oh, cold-hearted Farcillo, some evil
fiend hath urged you to do this, Farcillo.

_F._ Say you 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 to-morrow, or
until I had returned, some kind window would have been opened to her
relief. But, alas! she is gone—yes, for ever 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, 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 honour! 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 rock 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 dewdrops 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
favourable reply, he was at a loss to know; he knew not whether to
address Squire Valeer in prose or in poetry, in a jocular or an
argumentative manner, or whether he should use moral suasion, legal
injunction, or seize 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 honour 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 sworn 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 favourable 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 neighbouring 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 a 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: ‘O, Ambulinia! Ambulinia!! undutiful, ungrateful
daughter! What does this mean? Why does this letter bear such
heartrending 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 may 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 honouring his visits. O wretchedness! can it be that my hopes of
happiness are for ever 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 gauntlet 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 hour! 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 prophecy—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, ‘endeavour 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 wild-cats—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 favourable
  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 accordance with your station, or compatible with
  your rank; yet, “sub hoc 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 any 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 a 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 and 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 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,
                                          ‘Yours truly and for ever,
                                                      ‘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 to-morrow, 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 for ever.

Receive the deepest emotions of my heart for thy constant love, and
may the power of inspiration be 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 the neighbouring
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 they 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 the 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 for ever
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 endeavour 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. Squire 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
civilised, to allow such behaviour 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 confounded 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 it 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 be 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 honour? 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 for ever 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
strewed 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? 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
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 dishonour 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 endeavour 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 round 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 than the whole world beside.’ ‘It
cannot be done to-night,’ said Mr. Valeer. ‘I bear the clang of death;
my strength and armour 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 citizens 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 patronise such men? why not introduce him into your families as
a gentleman of taste and of unequalled 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 towards 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 nights 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
said, 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 were reposing. Accordingly she gathered her books, went to 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. Oh, Ambulinia, why hast thou deceived me?
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,
retrace 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
candour and benevolence. Her father received her with 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 towards 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, for ever, your
  devoted friend and admirer,

                                                      ‘J. I. 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 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 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 their 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_.




                       _ABOUT ALL KINDS OF SHIPS_


              THE MODERN STEAMER AND THE OBSOLETE STEAMER

We are victims of one common superstition—the superstition that we
realise the changes that are daily taking place in the world because we
read about them and know what they are. I should not have supposed that
the modern ship could be a surprise to me, but it is. It seems to be as
much of a surprise to me as it could have been if I had never read
anything about it. I walk about this great vessel, the ‘Havel,’ as she
ploughs her way through the Atlantic, and every detail that comes under
my eye brings up the miniature counterpart of it as it existed in the
little ships I crossed the ocean in, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen, and
twenty years ago.

In the ‘Havel’ one can be in several respects more comfortable than he
can be in the best hotels on the Continent of Europe. For instance, she
has several bath-rooms, and they are as convenient and as nicely
equipped as the bath-rooms in a fine private house in America; whereas
in the hotels of the Continent one bath-room is considered sufficient,
and it is generally shabby and located in some out-of-the-way corner of
the house; moreover, you need to give notice so long beforehand that you
get over wanting a bath by the time you get it. In the hotels there are
a good many different kinds of noises, and they spoil sleep; in my room
in the ship I hear no sounds. In the hotels they usually shut off the
electric light at midnight; in the ship one may burn it in one’s room
all night.

In the steamer ‘Batavia,’ twenty years ago, one candle set in the
bulkhead between two state-rooms was there to light both rooms, but did
not light either of them. It was extinguished at eleven at night, and so
were all the saloon lamps, except one or two, which were left burning to
help the passenger see how to break his neck trying to get around in the
dark. The passengers sat at table on long benches made of the hardest
kind of wood; in the ‘Havel’ one sits on a swivel chair with a cushioned
back to it. In those old times the dinner bill of fare was always the
same: a pint of some simple, homely soup or other, boiled codfish and
potatoes, slab of boiled beef; stewed prunes for dessert—on Sundays ‘dog
in a blanket,’ on Thursdays ‘plum duff.’ In the modern ship the _menu_
is choice and elaborate, and is changed daily. In the old times dinner
was a sad occasion; in our day a concealed orchestra enlivens it with
charming music. In the old days the decks were always wet; in our day
they are usually dry, for the promenade-deck is roofed over, and a sea
seldom comes aboard. In a moderately disturbed sea, in the old days, a
landsman could hardly keep his legs, but in such a sea in our day, the
decks are as level as a table. In the old days the inside of a ship was
the plainest and barrenest thing, and the most dismal and uncomfortable,
that ingenuity could devise; the modern ship is a marvel of rich and
costly decoration and sumptuous appointment, and is equipped with every
comfort and convenience that money can buy. The old ships had no place
of assembly but the dining-room; the new ones have several spacious and
beautiful drawing-rooms. The old ships offered the passenger no chance
to smoke except in the place that was called the ‘fiddle.’ It was a
repulsive den made of rough boards (full of cracks), and its office was
to protect the main hatch. It was grimy and dirty; there were no seats;
the only light was a lamp of the rancid-oil-and-rag kind; the place was
very cold, and never dry, for the seas broke in through the cracks every
little while and drenched the cavern thoroughly. In the modern ship
there are three or four large smoking-rooms, and they have card tables
and cushioned sofas, and are heated by steam and lighted by electricity.
There are few European hotels with such smoking-rooms.

The former ships were built of wood, and had two or three water-tight
compartments in the hold with doors in them, which were often left open,
particularly when the ship was going to hit a rock. The modern leviathan
is built of steel, and the water-tight bulkheads have no doors in them;
they divide the ship into nine or ten water-tight compartments and endow
her with as many lives as a cat. Their complete efficiency was
established by the happy results following the memorable accident to the
‘City of Paris’ a year or two ago.

One curious thing which is at once noticeable in the great modern ship
is the absence of hubbub, clatter, rush of feet, roaring of orders. That
is all gone by. The elaborate manœuvres necessary in working the vessel
into her dock are conducted without sound: one sees nothing of the
processes, hears no commands. A Sabbath stillness and solemnity reign in
place of the turmoil and racket of the earlier days. The modern ship has
a spacious bridge, fenced chin-high with sail-cloth, and floored with
wooden gratings; and this bridge, with its fenced fore-and-aft annexes,
could accommodate a seated audience of a hundred and fifty men. There
are three steering equipments, each competent if the others should
break. From the bridge the ship is steered, and also handled. The
handling is not done by shout or whistle, but by signalling with patent
automatic gongs. There are three tell-tales with plainly lettered
dials—for steering, handling the engines, and for communicating orders
to the invisible mates who are conducting the landing of the ship or
casting off. The officer who is astern is out of sight, and too far away
to hear trumpet calls; but the gongs near him tell him to haul in, pay
out, make fast, let go, and so on; he hears, but the passengers do not,
and so the ship seems to land herself without human help.

This great bridge is thirty or forty feet above the water, but the sea
climbs up there sometimes; so there is another bridge twelve or fifteen
feet higher still, for use in these emergencies. The force of water is a
strange thing. It slips between one’s fingers like air, but upon
occasion it acts like a solid body, and will bend a thin iron rod. In
the ‘Havel’ it has splintered a heavy oaken rail into broom-straws,
instead of merely breaking it in two as would have been the seemingly
natural thing for it to do. At the time of the awful Johnstown disaster,
according to the testimony of several witnesses, rocks were carried some
distance on the surface of the stupendous torrent; and at St. Helena,
many years ago, a vast sea-wave carried a battery of cannon forty feet
up a steep slope, and deposited the guns there in a row. But the water
has done a still stranger thing, and it is one which is credibly vouched
for. A marlinspike is an implement about a foot long which tapers from
its butt to the other extremity, and ends in a sharp point. It is made
of iron, and is heavy. A wave came aboard a ship in a storm and raged
aft, breast high, carrying a marlinspike point-first with it, and with
such lightning-like swiftness and force as to drive it three or four
inches into a sailor’s body and kill him.

In all ways the ocean greyhound of to-day is imposing and impressive to
one who carries in his head no ship-pictures of a recent date. In bulk
she comes near to rivalling the Ark; yet this monstrous mass of steel is
driven five hundred miles through the waves in twenty-four hours. I
remember the brag run of a steamer which I travelled in once on the
Pacific—it was two hundred and nine miles in twenty-four hours; a year
or so later I was a passenger in the excursion-tub ‘Quaker City,’ and on
one occasion, in a level and glassy sea, it was claimed that she reeled
off two hundred and eleven miles between noon and noon, but it was
probably a campaign lie. That little steamer had seventy passengers and
a crew of forty men, and seemed a good deal of a beehive; but in this
present ship we are living in a sort of solitude, these soft summer
days, with sometimes a hundred passengers scattered about the spacious
distances, and sometimes nobody in sight at all; yet, hidden somewhere
in the vessel’s bulk, there are (including crew) near eleven hundred
people.

The stateliest lines in the literature of the sea are these:

            Britannia needs no bulwark, no towers along the steep—
            Her march is o’er the mountain wave, her home is on the
               deep!

There it is. In those old times the little ships climbed over the waves
and wallowed down into the trough on the other side; the giant ship of
our day does not climb over the waves, but crushes her way through them.
Her formidable weight and mass and impetus give her mastery over any but
extraordinary storm-waves.

The ingenuity of man! I mean in this passing generation. To-day I found
in the chart-room a frame of removable wooden slats on the wall, and on
the slats was painted uninforming information like this:

                       Trim-Tank           Empty
                       Double-Bottom No. 1  Full
                       Double-Bottom No. 2  Full
                       Double-Bottom No. 3  Full
                       Double-Bottom No. 4  Full

While I was trying to think out what kind of a game this might be, and
how a stranger might best go to work to beat it, a sailor came in and
pulled out the ‘Empty’ end of the first slat and put it back with its
reverse side to the front, marked ‘Full.’ He made some other change, I
did not notice what. The slat-frame was soon explained. Its function was
to indicate how the ballast in the ship was distributed. The striking
thing was, that that ballast was water. I did not knew that a ship had
ever been ballasted with water. I had merely read, some time or other,
that such an experiment was to be tried. But that is the modern way;
between the experimental trial of a new thing and its adoption there is
no wasted time, if the trial proves its value.

On the wall, near the slat-frame, there was an outline drawing of the
ship, and this betrayed the fact that this vessel has twenty-two
considerable lakes of water in her. These lakes are in her bottom; they
are imprisoned between her real bottom and a false bottom. They are
separated from each other, thwartships, by water-tight bulkheads, and
separated down the middle by a bulkhead running from the bow four-fifths
of the way to the stern. It is a chain of lakes four hundred feet long
and from five to seven feet deep. Fourteen of the lakes contain fresh
water brought from shore, and the aggregate weight of it is four hundred
tons. The rest of the lakes contain salt water—six hundred and eighteen
tons. Upwards of a thousand tons of water altogether.

Think how handy this ballast is. The ship leaves port with the lakes all
full. As she lightens forward, through consumption of coal, she loses
trim—her head rises, her stern sinks down. Then they spill one of the
sternward lakes into the sea, and the trim is restored. This can be
repeated right along as occasion may require. Also, a lake at one end of
the ship can be moved to the other end by pipes and steam pumps. When
the sailor changed the slat-frame to-day, he was posting a transference
of that kind. The seas had been increasing, and the vessel’s head needed
more weighting, to keep it from rising on the waves instead of ploughing
through them; therefore, twenty-five tons of water had been transferred
to the bow from a lake situated well towards the stern.

A water compartment is kept either full or empty. The body of water must
be compact, so that it cannot slosh around. A shifting ballast would not
do, of course.

The modern ship is full of beautiful ingenuities, but it seems to me
that this one is the king. I would rather be the originator of that idea
than of any of the others. Perhaps the trim of a ship was never
perfectly ordered and preserved until now. A vessel out of trim will not
steer, her speed is maimed, she strains and labours in the seas. Poor
creature! for six thousand years she has had no comfort until these
latest days. For six thousand years she swam through the best and
cheapest ballast in the world, the only perfect ballast, but she
couldn’t tell her master, and he had not the wit to find it out for
himself. It is odd to reflect that there is nearly as much water inside
of this ship as there is outside, and yet there is no danger.


                               NOAH’S ARK

The progress made in the great art of ship-building since Noah’s time is
quite noticeable. Also, the looseness of the navigation laws in the time
of Noah is in quite striking contrast with the strictness of the
navigation laws of our time. It would not be possible for Noah to do in
our day what he was permitted to do in his own. Experience has taught us
the necessity of being more particular, more conservative, more careful
of human life. Noah would not be allowed to sail from Bremen in our day.
The inspectors would come and examine the Ark, and make all sorts of
objections. A person who knows Germany can imagine the scene and the
conversation without difficulty and without missing a detail. The
inspector would be in a beautiful military uniform; he would be
respectful, dignified, kindly, the perfect gentleman, but steady as the
north star to the last requirement of his duty. He would make Noah tell
him where he was born, and how old he was, and what religious sect he
belonged to, and the amount of his income, and the grade and position he
claimed socially, and the name and style of his occupation, and how many
wives and children he had, and how many servants, and the name, sex, and
age of the whole of them; and if he hadn’t a passport he would be
courteously required to get one right away. Then he would take up the
matter of the Ark:

‘What is her length?’

‘Six hundred feet.’

‘Depth?’

‘Sixty-five.’

‘Beam?’

‘Fifty or sixty.’

‘Built of——’

‘Wood.’

‘What kind?’

‘Shittim and gopher.’

‘Interior and exterior decorations?’

‘Pitched within and without.’

‘Passengers?’

‘Eight.’

‘Sex?’

‘Half male, the others female.’

‘Ages?’

‘From a hundred years up.’

‘Up to where?’

‘Six hundred.’

‘Ah! going to Chicago; good idea, too. Surgeon’s name?’

‘We have no surgeon.’

‘Must provide a surgeon. Also an undertaker—particularly the undertaker.
These people must not be left without the necessities of life at their
age. Crew?’

‘The same eight.’

‘The same eight?’

‘The same eight.’

‘And half of them women?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have they ever served as seamen?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have the men?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have any of you ever been to sea?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Where were you reared?’

‘On a farm—all of us.’

‘This vessel requires a crew of eight hundred men, she not being a
steamer. You must provide them. She must have four mates and nine cooks.
Who is captain?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘You must get a captain. Also a chambermaid. Also sick nurses for the
old people. Who designed this vessel?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘Is it your first attempt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I partly suspected it. Cargo?’

‘Animals.’

‘Kind?’

‘All kinds.’

‘Wild or tame?’

‘Mainly wild.’

‘Foreign or domestic?’

‘Mainly foreign.’

‘Principal wild ones?’

‘Megatherium, elephant, rhinoceros, lion, tiger, wolf, snakes—all the
wild things of all climes—two of each.’

‘Securely caged?’

‘No, not caged.’

‘They must have iron cages. Who feeds and waters the menagerie?’

‘We do.’

‘The old people?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It is dangerous—for both. The animals must be cared for by a competent
force. How many animals are there?’

‘Big ones, seven thousand; big and little together, ninety-eight
thousand.’

‘You must provide twelve hundred keepers. How is the vessel lighted?’

‘By two windows.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Up under the eaves.’

‘Two windows for a tunnel six hundred feet long and sixty-five feet
deep? You must put in the electric light—a few arc lights and fifteen
hundred incandescents. What do you do in case of leaks? How many pumps
have you?’

‘None, sir.’

‘You must provide pumps. How do you get water for the passengers and the
animals?’

‘We let down the buckets from the windows.’

‘It is inadequate. What is your motive power?’

‘What is my which?’

‘Motive power. What power do you use in driving the ship?’

‘None.’

‘You must provide sails or steam. What is the nature of your steering
apparatus?’

‘We haven’t any.’

‘Haven’t you a rudder?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How do you steer the vessel?’

‘We don’t.’

‘You must provide a rudder, and properly equip it. How many anchors have
you?’

‘None.’

‘You must provide six. One is not permitted to sail a vessel like this
without that protection. How many life-boats have you?’

‘None, sir.’

‘Provide twenty-five. How many life-preservers?’

‘None.’

‘You will provide two thousand. How long are you expecting your voyage
to last?’

‘Eleven or twelve months.’

‘Eleven or twelve months. Pretty slow—but you will be in time for the
Exposition. What is your ship sheathed with—copper?’

‘Her hull is bare—not sheathed at all.’

‘Dear man, the wood-boring creatures of the sea would riddle her like a
sieve and send her to the bottom in three months. She _cannot_ be
allowed to go away in this condition; she must be sheathed. Just a word
more: Have you reflected that Chicago is an inland city, and not
reachable with a vessel like this?’

‘Shecargo? What is Shecargo? I am not going to Shecargo.’

‘Indeed? Then may I ask what the animals are for?’

‘Just to breed others from.’

‘Others? Is it possible that you haven’t enough?’

‘For the present needs of civilisation, yes; but the rest are going to
be drowned in a flood, and these are to renew the supply.’

‘A flood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Perfectly sure. It is going to rain forty days and forty nights.’

‘Give yourself no concern about that, dear sir, it often does that
here.’

‘Not this kind of rain. This is going to cover the mountain-tops, and
the earth will pass from sight.’

‘Privately—but of course not officially—I am sorry you revealed this,
for it compels me to withdraw the option I gave you as to sails or
steam. I must require you to use steam. Your ship cannot carry the
hundredth part of an eleven-months’ water-supply for the animals. You
will have to have condensed water.’

‘But I tell you I am going to dip water from outside with buckets.’

‘It will not answer. Before the flood reaches the mountain-tops the
fresh waters will have joined the salt seas, and it will all be salt.
You must put in steam and condense your water. I will now bid you
good-day, sir. Did I understand you to say that this was your very first
attempt at ship-building?’

‘My very first, sir, I give you the honest truth. I built this Ark
without having ever had the slightest training or experience or
instruction in marine architecture.’

‘It is a remarkable work, sir, a most remarkable work. I consider that
it contains more features that are new—absolutely new and
unhackneyed—than are to be found in any other vessel that swims the
seas.’

‘This compliment does me infinite honour, dear sir, infinite; and I
shall cherish the memory of it while life shall last. Sir, I offer my
duty, and most grateful thanks. Adieu.’

No, the German inspector would be limitlessly courteous to Noah, and
would make him feel that he was among friends, but he wouldn’t let him
go to sea with that Ark.


                            COLUMBUS’S CRAFT

Between Noah’s time and the time of Columbus naval architecture
underwent some changes, and from being unspeakably bad was improved to a
point which may be described as less unspeakably bad. I have read
somewhere, some time or other, that one of Columbus’s ships was a
ninety-ton vessel. By comparing that ship with the ocean greyhounds of
our time one is able to get down to a comprehension of how small that
Spanish bark was, and how little fitted she would be to run opposition
in the Atlantic passenger trade to-day. It would take seventy-four of
her to match the tonnage of the ‘Havel’ and carry the ‘Havel’s’ trip. If
I remember rightly, it took her ten weeks to make the passage. With our
ideas this would now be considered an objectionable gait. She probably
had a captain, a mate, and a crew consisting of four seamen and a boy.
The crew of a modern greyhound numbers two hundred and fifty persons.

Columbus’s ship being small and very old, we know that we may draw from
these two facts several absolute certainties in the way of minor details
which history has left unrecorded. For instance, being small, we know
that she rolled and pitched and tumbled in any ordinary sea, and stood
on her head or her tail, or lay down with her ear in the water, when
storm-seas ran high; also, that she was used to having billows plunge
aboard and wash her decks from stem to stern; also, that the storm-racks
were on the table all the way over, and that, nevertheless, a man’s soup
was oftener landed in his lap than in his stomach; also, that the
dining-saloon was about ten feet by seven, dark, airless, and
suffocating with oil-stench; also, that there was only about one
state-room—the size of a grave—with a tier of two or three berths in it,
of the dimensions and comfortableness of coffins, and that when the
light was out, the darkness in there was so thick and real that you
could bite into it and chew it like gum; also, that the only promenade
was on the lofty poop-deck astern (for the ship was shaped like a
high-quarter shoe)—a streak sixteen feet long by three feet wide, all
the rest of the vessel being littered with ropes and flooded by the
seas.

We know all these things to be true, from the mere fact that we know the
vessel was small. As the vessel was old, certain other truths follow as
matters of course. For instance, she was full of rats, she was full of
cockroaches, the heavy seas made her seams open and shut like your
fingers, and she leaked like a basket; where leakage is, there also, of
necessity, is bilgewater; and where bilgewater is, only the dead can
enjoy life. This is on account of the smell. In the presence of
bilgewater, Limburger cheese becomes odourless and ashamed.

From these absolutely sure data we can competently picture the daily
life of the great discoverer. In the early morning he paid his devotions
at the shrine of the Virgin. At eight bells he appeared on the poop-deck
promenade. If the weather was chilly, he came up clad from plumed helmet
to spurred heel in magnificent plate armour inlaid with arabesques of
gold, having previously warmed it at the galley fire. If the weather was
warm, he came up in the ordinary sailor toggery of the time: great
slouch hat of blue velvet, with a flowing brush of snowy ostrich plumes,
fastened on with a flashing cluster of diamonds and emeralds;
gold-embroidered doublet of green velvet, with slashed sleeves exposing
under-sleeves of crimson satin; deep collar and cuff-ruffles of rich
limp lace; trunk hose of pink velvet, with big knee knots of brocaded
yellow ribbon; pearl-tinted silk stockings, clocked and daintily
embroidered; lemon-coloured buskins of unborn kid, funnel-topped, and
drooping low to expose the pretty stockings; deep gauntlets of finest
white heretic skin, from the factory of the Holy Inquisition, formerly
part of the person of a lady of rank; rapier with sheath crusted with
jewels, and hanging from a broad baldric upholstered with rubies and
sapphires.

He walked the promenade thoughtfully; he noted the aspects of the sky
and the course of the wind; he kept an eye out for drifting vegetation
and other signs of land; he jawed the man at the wheel for pastime; he
got out an imitation egg and kept himself in practice on his old trick
of making it stand on its end; now and then he hove a life-line below
and fished up a sailor who was drowning on the quarter-deck; the rest of
his watch he gaped and yawned and stretched and said he wouldn’t make
the trip again to discover six Americas. For that was the kind of
natural human person Columbus was when not posing for posterity.

At noon he took the sun and ascertained that the good ship had made
three hundred yards in twenty-four hours, and this enabled him to win
the pool. Anybody can win the pool when nobody but himself has the
privilege of straightening out the ship’s run and getting it right.

The Admiral has breakfasted alone, in state: bacon, beans, and gin; at
noon he dines alone in state: bacon, beans, and gin; at six he sups
alone in state: bacon, beans, and gin; at 11 P.M. he takes a night
relish, alone, in state: bacon, beans, and gin. At none of these orgies
is there any music; the ship-orchestra is modern. After his final meal
he returned thanks for his many blessings, a little over-rating their
value, perhaps, and then he laid off his silken splendours or his gilded
hardware, and turned in, in his little coffin-bunk, and blew out his
flickering stencher, and began to refresh his lungs with inverted sighs
freighted with the rich odours of rancid oil and bilgewater. The sighs
returned as snores, and then the rats and the cockroaches swarmed out in
brigades and divisions and army corps and had a circus all over him.

Such was the daily life of the great discoverer in his marine basket
during several historic weeks; and the difference between his ship and
his comforts and ours is visible almost at a glance.

When he returned, the King of Spain, marvelling, said—as history
records:

‘This ship seems to be leaky. Did she leak badly?’

‘You shall judge for yourself, sire. I pumped the Atlantic Ocean through
her sixteen times on the passage.’

This is General Horace Porter’s account. Other authorities say fifteen.

It can be shown that the differences between that ship and the one I am
writing these historical contributions in, are in several respects
remarkable. Take the matter of decoration, for instance. I have been
looking around again, yesterday and to-day, and have noted several
details which I conceive to have been absent from Columbus’s ship, or at
least slurred over and not elaborated and perfected. I observe
state-room doors three inches thick, of solid oak, and polished. I note
companionway vestibules with walls, doors, and ceilings panelled in
polished hard-woods, some light, some dark, all dainty and delicate
joiner-work, and yet every joint compact and tight; with beautiful
pictures inserted, composed of blue tiles—some of the pictures
containing as many as sixty tiles—and the joinings of those tiles
perfect. These are daring experiments. One would have said that the
first time the ship went straining and labouring through a storm-tumbled
sea those tiles would gape apart and drop out. That they have not done
so is evidence that the joiner’s art has advanced a good deal since the
days when ships were so shackly that when a giant sea gave them a wrench
the doors came unbolted. I find the walls of the dining-saloon
upholstered with mellow pictures wrought in tapestry, and the ceiling
aglow with pictures done in oil. In other places of assembly I find
great panels filled with embossed Spanish leather, the figures rich with
gilding and bronze. Everywhere I find sumptuous masses of colour—colour,
colour, colour—colour all about, colour of every shade and tint and
variety; and as a result, the ship is bright and cheery to the eye, and
this cheeriness invades one’s spirit and contents it. To fully
appreciate the force and spiritual value of this radiant and opulent
dream of colour, one must stand outside at night in the pitch dark and
the rain, and look in through a port, and observe it in the lavish
splendour of the electric lights. The old-time ships were dull, plain,
graceless, gloomy, and horribly depressing. They compelled the blues;
one could not escape the blues in them. The modern idea is right: to
surround the passenger with conveniences, luxuries, and abundance of
inspiriting colour. As a result, the ship is the pleasantest place one
can be in, except, perhaps, one’s home.


                          A VANISHED SENTIMENT

One thing is gone, to return no more for ever—the romance of the sea.
Soft sentimentality about the sea has retired from the activities of
this life, and is but a memory of the past, already remote and much
faded. But within the recollection of men still living, it was in the
breast of every individual; and the further any individual lived from
salt water the more of it he kept in stock. It was as pervasive, as
universal, as the atmosphere itself. The mere mention of the sea, the
romantic sea, would make any company of people sentimental and mawkish
at once. The great majority of the songs that were sung by the young
people of the back settlements had the melancholy wanderer for subject,
and his mouthings about the sea for refrain. Picnic parties, paddling
down a creek in a canoe when the twilight shadows were gathering, always
sang

            Homeward bound, homeward bound
            From a foreign shore;

and this was also a favourite in the West with the passengers on
sternwheel steamboats. There was another—

            My boat is by the shore,
              And my bark is on the sea,
            But before I go, Tom Moore,
              Here’s a double health to thee.

And this one, also—

            Oh, pilot, ’tis a fearful night,
            There’s danger on the deep.

And this—

            A life on the ocean wave,
              And a home on the rolling deep,
            Where the scattered waters rave,
              And the winds their revels keep!

And this—

            A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
            And a wind that follows fair.

And this—

            My foot is on my gallant deck,
            Once more the rover is free!

And the ‘Larboard Watch’—the person referred to below is at the
masthead, or somewhere up there—

            Oh, who can tell what joy he feels,
            As o’er the foam his vessel reels,
            And his tired eyelids slumb’ring fall,
            He rouses at the welcome call
                      Of ‘Larboard watch—ahoy!’

Yes, and there was for ever and always some jackass-voiced person
braying out—

            Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
            I lay me down in peace to sleep!

Other favourites had these suggestive titles: ‘The Storm at Sea;’ ‘The
Bird at Sea;’ ‘The Sailor Boy’s Dream;’ ‘The Captive Pirate’s Lament;’
‘We are far from Home on the Stormy Main’—and so on, and so on, the list
is endless. Everybody on a farm lived chiefly amid the dangers of the
deep in those days, in fancy.

But all that is gone now. Not a vestige of it is left. The iron-clad,
with her unsentimental aspect and frigid attention to business, banished
romance from the war-marine, and the unsentimental steamer has banished
it from the commercial marine. The dangers and uncertainties which made
sea life romantic have disappeared and carried the poetic element along
with them. In our day the passengers never sing sea-songs on board a
ship, and the band never plays them. Pathetic songs about the wanderer
in strange lands far from home, once so popular and contributing such
fire and colour to the imagination by reason of the rarity of that kind
of wanderer, have lost their charm and fallen silent, because everybody
is a wanderer in the far lands now, and the interest in that detail is
dead. Nobody is worried about the wanderer; there are no perils of the
sea for him, there are no uncertainties. He is safer in the ship than he
would probably be at home, for there he is always liable to have to
attend some friend’s funeral, and stand over the grave in the sleet,
bareheaded—and that means pneumonia for him, if he gets his deserts; and
the uncertainties of his voyage are reduced to whether he will arrive on
the other side in the appointed afternoon, or have to wait till morning.

The first ship I was ever in was a sailing vessel. She was twenty-eight
days going from San Francisco to the Sandwich Islands. But the main
reason for this particularly slow passage was, that she got becalmed,
and lay in one spot fourteen days in the centre of the Pacific, two
thousand miles from land. I hear no sea-songs in this present vessel,
but I heard the entire layout in that one. There were a dozen young
people—they are pretty old now I reckon—and they used to group
themselves on the stern, in the starlight or the moonlight, every
evening, and sing sea-songs till after midnight, in that hot, silent,
motionless calm. They had no sense of humour, and they always sang
‘Homeward Bound,’ without reflecting that that was practically
ridiculous, since they were standing still and not proceeding in any
direction at all; and they often followed that song with ‘Are we almost
there, are we almost there, said the dying girl as she drew near home?’

It was a very pleasant company of young people, and I wonder where they
are now. Gone, oh, none knows whither; and the bloom and grace and
beauty of their youth, where is that? Among them was a liar; all tried
to reform him, but none could do it. And so, gradually, he was left to
himself, none of us would associate with him. Many a time since I have
seen in fancy that forsaken figure, leaning forlorn against the
taffrail, and have reflected that perhaps if we had tried harder, and
been more patient, we might have won him from his fault and persuaded
him to relinquish it. But it is hard to tell; with him the vice was
extreme, and was probably incurable. I like to think—and, indeed, I do
think—that I did the best that in me lay to lead him to higher and
better ways.

There was a singular circumstance. The ship lay becalmed that entire
fortnight in exactly the same spot. Then a handsome breeze came fanning
over the sea, and we spread our white wings for flight. But the vessel
did not budge. The sails bellied out, the gale strained at the ropes,
but the vessel moved not a hair’s breadth from her place. The captain
was surprised. It was some hours before we found out what the cause of
the detention was. It was barnacles. They collect very fast in that part
of the Pacific. They had fastened themselves to the ship’s bottom; then
others had fastened themselves to the first bunch, others to these, and
so on, down and down and down, and the last bunch had glued the column
hard and fast to the bottom of the sea, which is five miles deep at that
point. So the ship was simply become the handle of a walking-cane five
miles long—yes, and no more movable by wind and sail than a continent
is. It was regarded by every one as remarkable.

Well, the next week—however, Sandy Hook is in sight.




                           _PLAYING COURIER_


A time would come when we must go from Aix-les-Bains to Geneva, and from
thence, by a series of day-long and tangled journeys, to Bayreuth in
Bavaria. I should have to have a courier, of course, to take care of so
considerable a party as mine.

But I procrastinated. The time slipped along, and at last I woke up one
day to the fact that we were ready to move and had no courier. I then
resolved upon what I felt was a foolhardy thing, but I was in the humour
of it. I said I would make the first stage without help—I did it.

I brought the party from Aix to Geneva by myself—four people. The
distance was two hours and more, and there was one change of cars. There
was not an accident of any kind, except leaving a valise and some other
matters on the platform—a thing which can hardly be called an accident,
it is so common. So I offered to conduct the party all the way to
Bayreuth.

This was a blunder, though it did not seem so at the time. There was
more detail than I thought there would be: 1. Two persons whom we had
left in a Genevan pension some weeks before must be collected and
brought to the hotel. 2. I must notify the people on the Grand Quay who
store trunks to bring seven of our stored trunks to the hotel and carry
back seven which they would find piled in the lobby. 3. I must find out
what part of Europe Bayreuth was in and buy seven railway tickets for
that point. 4. I must send a telegram to a friend in the Netherlands. 5.
It was now two in the afternoon, and we must look sharp and be ready for
the first night train, and make sure of sleeping-car tickets. 6. I must
draw money at the bank.

It seemed to me that the sleeping-car tickets must be the most important
thing, so I went to the station myself to make sure; hotel messengers
are not always brisk people. It was a hot day and I ought to have
driven, but it seemed better economy to walk. It did not turn out so,
because I lost my way and trebled the distance. I applied for the
tickets, and they asked me which route I wanted to go by, and that
embarrassed me and made me lose my head, there were so many people
standing around, and I not knowing anything about the routes, and not
supposing there were going to be two; so I judged it best to go back and
map out the road and come again.

I took a cab this time, but on my way upstairs at the hotel I remembered
that I was out of cigars, so I thought it would be well to get some
while the matter was in my mind. It was only round the corner and I
didn’t need the cab. I asked the cabman to wait where he was. Thinking
of the telegram and trying to word it in my head, I forgot the cigars
and the cab, and walked on indefinitely. I was going to have the hotel
people send the telegram, but as I could not be far from the Post Office
by this time, I thought I would do it myself. But it was further than I
had supposed. I found the place at last, and wrote the telegram and
handed it in. The clerk was a severe-looking, fidgety man, and he began
to fire French questions at me in such a liquid form that I could not
detect the joints between his words, and this made me lose my head
again. But an Englishman stepped up and said the clerk wanted to know
where he was to send the telegram. I could not tell him, because it was
not my telegram, and I explained that I was merely sending it for a
member of my party. But nothing would pacify the clerk but the address;
so I said that if he was so particular I would go back and get it.

However, I thought I would go and collect those lacking two persons
first, for it would be best to do everything systematically and in
order, and one detail at a time. Then I remembered the cab was eating up
my substance down at the hotel yonder; so I called another cab, and told
the man to go down and fetch it to the Post Office and wait till I came.

I had a long hot walk to collect those people, and when I got there they
couldn’t come with me because they had heavy satchels, and must have a
cab. I went away to find one, but before I ran across any I noticed that
I had reached the neighbourhood of the Grand Quay—at least, I thought I
had—so I judged I could save time by stepping around and arranging about
the trunks. I stepped around about a mile, and although I did not find
the Grand Quay, I found a cigar shop, and remembered about the cigars. I
said I was going to Bayreuth, and wanted enough for the journey. The man
asked me which route I was going to take. I said I did not know. He said
he would recommend me to go by Zurich and various other places which he
named, and offered to sell me seven second-class through tickets for $22
apiece, which would be throwing off the discount which the railroads
allowed him. I was already tired of riding second class on first-class
tickets, so I took him up.

By-and-by I found Natural & Co.’s storage office, and told them to send
seven of our trunks to the hotel and pile them up in the lobby. It
seemed to me that I was not delivering the whole of the message; still,
it was all I could find in my head.

Next I found the bank, and asked for some money, but I had left my
letter of credit somewhere and was not able to draw. I remembered now
that I must have left it lying on the table where I wrote my telegram;
so I got a cab and drove to the Post Office and went upstairs, and they
said that a letter of credit had indeed been left on the table, but that
it was now in the hands of the police authorities, and it would be
necessary for me to go there and prove property. They sent a boy with
me, and we went out the back way and walked a couple of miles and found
the place; and then I remembered about my cabs, and asked the boy to
send them to me when he got back to the Post Office. It was nightfall
now, and the Mayor had gone to dinner. I thought I would go to dinner
myself, but the officer on duty thought differently, and I stayed. The
Mayor dropped in at half past ten, but said it was too late to do
anything to-night—come at 9.30 in the morning. The officer wanted to
keep me all night, and said I was a suspicious-looking person, and
probably did not own the letter of credit, and didn’t know what a letter
of credit was, but merely saw the real owner leave it lying on the
table, and wanted to get it because I was probably a person that would
want anything he could get, whether it was valuable or not. But the
Mayor said he saw nothing suspicious about me, and that I seemed a
harmless person, and nothing the matter with me but a wandering mind,
and not much of that. So I thanked him and he set me free, and I went
home in my three cabs.

As I was dog-tired, and in no condition to answer questions with
discretion, I thought I would not disturb the Expedition at that time of
night, as there was a vacant room I knew of at the other end of the
hall; but I did not quite arrive there, as a watch had been set, the
Expedition being anxious about me. I was placed in a galling situation.
The Expedition sat stiff and forbidding, on four chairs in a row, with
shawls and things all on, satchels and guide-books in lap. They had been
sitting like that for four hours, and the glass going down all the time.
Yes, and they were waiting—waiting for me. It seemed to me that nothing
but a sudden, happily contrived, and brilliant _tour de force_ could
break this iron front and make a diversion in my favour; so I shied my
hat into the arena, and followed it with a skip and a jump, shouting
blithely:

‘Ha, ha, here we all are, Mr. Merryman!’

Nothing could be deeper or stiller than the absence of applause which
followed. But I kept on; there seemed no other way, though my
confidence, poor enough before, had got a deadly check, and was in
effect gone.

I tried to be jocund out of a heavy heart; I tried to touch the other
hearts there and soften the bitter resentment in those faces by throwing
off bright and airy fun, and making of the whole ghastly thing a
joyously humorous incident; but this idea was not well conceived. It was
not the right atmosphere for it. I got not one smile; not one line in
those offended faces relaxed; I thawed nothing of the winter that looked
out of those frosty eyes. I started one more breezy, poor effort, but
the head of the Expedition cut into the centre of it, and said:

‘Where have you been?’

I saw by the manner of this that the idea was to get down to cold
business now. So I began my travels, but was cut short again.

‘Where are the two others? We have been in frightful anxiety about
them.’

‘Oh, they’re all right. I was to fetch a cab. I will go straight off,
and——’

‘Sit down! Don’t you know it is 11 o’clock? Where did you leave them?’

‘At the pension.’

‘Why didn’t you bring them?’

‘Because we couldn’t carry the satchels. And so I thought——’

‘Thought! You should not try to think. One cannot think without the
proper machinery. It is two miles to that pension. Did you go there
without a cab?’

‘I—well, I didn’t intend to; it only happened so.’

‘How did it happen so?’

‘Because I was at the Post Office, and I remembered that I had left a
cab waiting here, and so, to stop the expense, I sent another cab
to—to——’

‘To what?’

‘Well, I don’t remember now, but I think the new cab was to have the
hotel pay the old cab, and send it away.’

‘What good would that do?’

‘What good would it do? It would stop the expense, wouldn’t it?’

‘By putting the new cab in its place to continue the expense?’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Why didn’t you have the new cab come back for you?’

‘Oh, that is what I did! I remember now. Yes, that is what I did.
Because I recollect that when I——’

‘Well, then, why didn’t it come back for you?’

‘To the Post Office? Why, it did.’

‘Very well, then, how did you come to walk to the pension?’

‘I—I don’t quite remember how that happened. Oh, yes, I do remember now.
I wrote the despatch to send to the Netherlands, and——’

‘Oh, thank goodness, you did accomplish something! I wouldn’t have had
you fail to send——What makes you look like that? You are trying to avoid
my eye. That despatch is the most important thing that——You haven’t sent
that despatch!’

‘I haven’t said I didn’t send it.’

‘You don’t need to. Oh, dear, I wouldn’t have had that telegram fail for
anything. Why didn’t you send it?’

‘Well, you see, with so many things to do and think of, I—they’re very
particular there, and after I had written the telegram——’

‘Oh, never mind, let it go, explanations can’t help the matter now—what
will he think of us?’

‘Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right! He’ll think we gave the
telegram to the hotel people, and that they——’

‘Why, certainly! Why didn’t you do that? There was no other rational
way.’

‘Yes, I know, but then I had it on my mind that I must be sure and get
to the bank and draw some money——’

‘Well, you are entitled to some credit, after all, for thinking of that,
and I don’t wish to be too hard on you, though you must acknowledge
yourself that you have cost us all a good deal of trouble, and some of
it not necessary. How much did you draw?’

‘Well, I—I had an idea that—that——’

‘That what?’

‘That—well, it seems to me that in the circumstances—so many of us, you
know, and—and——’

‘What are you mooning about? Do turn your face this way and let me——Why,
you haven’t drawn any money!’

‘Well, the banker said——’

‘Never mind what the banker said. You must have had a reason of your
own. Not a reason, exactly, but something which——’

‘Well, then, the simple fact was that I hadn’t my letter of credit.’

‘Hadn’t your letter of credit?’

‘Hadn’t my letter of credit.’

‘Don’t repeat me like that. Where was it?’

‘At the Post Office.’

‘What was it doing there?’

‘Well, I forgot it, and left it there.’

‘Upon my word, I’ve seen a good many couriers, but of all the couriers
that ever I——’

‘I’ve done the best I could.’

‘Well, so you have, poor thing, and I’m wrong to abuse you so when
you’ve been working yourself to death while we’ve been sitting here,
only thinking of our vexations instead of feeling grateful for what you
were trying to do for us. It will all come out right. We can take the
7.30 train in the morning just as well. You’ve bought the tickets?’

‘I have—and it’s a bargain, too. Second class.’

‘I’m glad of it. Everybody else travels second class, and we might just
as well save that ruinous extra charge. What did you pay?’

‘Twenty-two dollars apiece—through to Bayreuth.’

‘Why, I didn’t know you could buy through tickets anywhere but in London
and Paris.’

‘Some people can’t, maybe; but some people can—of whom I am one of
which, it appears.’

‘It seems a rather high price.’

‘On the contrary, the dealer knocked off his commission.’

‘Dealer?’

‘Yes—I bought them at a cigar shop.’

‘That reminds me. We shall have to get up pretty early, and so there
should be no packing to do. Your umbrella, your rubbers, your
cigars——What is the matter?’

‘Hang it! I’ve left the cigars at the bank.’

‘Just think of it! Well, your umbrella?’

‘I’ll have that all right. There’s no hurry.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Oh, that’s all right; I’ll take care of——’

‘Where is that umbrella?’

‘It’s just the merest step—it won’t take me——’

‘Where is it?’

‘Well, I think I left it at the cigar shop; but any way——’

‘Take your feet out from under that thing. It’s just as I expected!
Where are your rubbers?’

‘They—well——’

‘Where are your rubbers?’

‘It’s got so dry now—well, everybody says there’s not going to be
another drop of——’

‘Where—are—your—rubbers?’

‘Well, you see—well, it was this way. First, the officer said——’

‘What officer?’

‘Police officer; but the Mayor, he——’

‘What Mayor?’

‘Mayor of Geneva; but I said——’

‘Wait. What is the matter with you?’

‘Who, me? Nothing. They both tried to persuade me to stay, and——’

‘Stay where?’

‘Well—the fact is——’

‘Where have you been? What’s kept you out till half past ten at night?’

‘Oh, you see, after I lost my letter of credit, I——’

‘You are beating around the bush a good deal. Now, answer the question
in just one straightforward word. Where are those rubbers?’

‘They—well, they’re in the county jail.’

I started a placating smile, but it petrified. The climate was
unsuitable. Spending three or four hours in jail did not seem to the
Expedition humorous. Neither did it to me, at bottom.

I had to explain the whole thing, and of course it came out then that we
couldn’t take the early train, because that would leave my letter of
credit in hock still. It did look as if we had all got to go to bed
estranged and unhappy, but by good luck that was prevented. There
happened to be mention of the trunks, and I was able to say I had
attended to that feature.

‘There, you are just as good and thoughtful and painstaking and
intelligent as you can be, and it’s a shame to find so much fault with
you, and there shan’t be another word of it! You’ve done beautifully,
admirably, and I’m sorry I ever said one ungrateful word to you.’

This hit deeper than some of the other things, and made me
uncomfortable, because I wasn’t feeling as solid about that trunk errand
as I wanted to. There seemed, somehow, to be a defect about it
somewhere, though I couldn’t put my finger on it, and didn’t like to
stir the matter just now, it being late and maybe well enough to let
well enough alone.

Of course there was music in the morning, when it was found that we
couldn’t leave by the early train. But I had no time to wait; I got only
the opening bars of the overture, and then started out to get my letter
of credit.

It seemed a good time to look into the trunk business and rectify it if
it needed it, and I had a suspicion that it did. I was too late. The
concierge said he had shipped the trunks to Zurich the evening before. I
asked him how he could do that without exhibiting passage tickets.

‘Not necessary in Switzerland. You pay for your trunks and send them
where you please. Nothing goes free but your hand baggage.’

‘How much did you pay on them?’

‘A hundred and forty francs.’

‘Twenty-eight dollars. There’s something wrong about that trunk
business, sure.’

Next I met the porter. He said:

‘You have not slept well, is it not? You have the worn look. If you
would like a courier, a good one has arrived last night, and is not
engaged for five days already, by the name of Ludi. We recommend him;
“das heisst,” the Grande Hotel Beau Rivage recommends him.’

I declined with coldness. My spirit was not broken yet. And I did not
like having my condition taken notice of in this way. I was at the
county jail by nine o’clock, hoping that the Mayor might chance to come
before his regular hour; but he didn’t. It was dull there. Every time I
offered to touch anything, or look at anything, or do anything, or
refrain from doing anything, the policeman said it was ‘defendu.’ I
thought I would practise my French on him, but he wouldn’t have that
either. It seemed to make him particularly bitter to hear his own
tongue.

The Mayor came at last, and then there was no trouble; for the minute he
had convened the Supreme Court—which they always do whenever there is
valuable property in dispute—and got everything shipshape, and sentries
posted, and had prayer, by the chaplain, my unsealed letter was brought
and opened, and there wasn’t anything in it but some photographs:
because, as I remembered now, I had taken out the letter of credit so as
to make room for the photographs, and had put the letter in my other
pocket, which I proved to everybody’s satisfaction by fetching it out
and showing it with a good deal of exultation. So then the court looked
at each other in a vacant kind of way, and then at me, and then at each
other again, and finally let me go, but said it was imprudent for me to
be at large, and asked me what my profession was. I said I was a
courier. They lifted up their eyes in a kind of reverent way and said,
‘Du lieber Gott!’ and I said a word of courteous thanks for their
apparent admiration and hurried off to the bank.

However, being a courier was already making me a great stickler for
order and system and one thing at a time and each thing in its own
proper turn; so I passed by the bank and branched off and started for
the two lacking members of the Expedition. A cab lazied by and I took it
upon persuasion. I gained no speed by this, but it was a reposeful turn
out and I liked reposefulness. The week-long jubilations over the
six-hundredth anniversary of the birth of Swiss liberty and the Signing
of the Compact was at flood tide, and all the streets were clothed in
fluttering flags.

The horse and the driver had been drunk three days and nights, and had
known no stall nor bed meantime. They looked as I felt—dreamy and seedy.
But we arrived in course of time. I went in and rang, and asked a
housemaid to rush out the lacking members. She said something which I
did not understand, and I returned to the chariot. The girl had probably
told me that those people did not belong on her floor, and that it would
be judicious for me to go higher, and ring from floor to floor till I
found them; for in those Swiss flats there does not seem to be any way
to find the right family but to be patient and guess your way along up.
I calculated that I must wait fifteen minutes, there being three details
inseparable from an occasion of this sort: 1, put on hats and come down
and climb in; 2, return of one to get ‘my other glove’; 3, presently,
return of the other one to fetch ‘my French Verbs at a Glance.’ I would
muse during the fifteen minutes and take it easy.

A very still and blank interval ensued, and then I felt a hand on my
shoulder and started. The intruder was a policeman. I glanced up and
perceived that there was new scenery. There was a good deal of a crowd,
and they had that pleased and interested look which such a crowd wears
when they see that somebody is out of luck. The horse was asleep, and so
was the driver, and some boys had hung them and me full of gaudy
decorations stolen from the innumerable banner poles. It was a
scandalous spectacle. The officer said:

‘I’m sorry, but we can’t have you sleeping here all day.’

I was wounded, and said with dignity:

‘I beg your pardon, I was not sleeping; I was thinking.’

‘Well, you can think, if you want to, but you’ve got to think to
yourself; you disturb the whole neighbourhood.’

It was a poor joke, and it made the crowd laugh. I snore at night
sometimes, but it is not likely that I would do such a thing in the
daytime and in such a place. The officer undecorated us, and seemed
sorry for our friendlessness, and really tried to be humane, but he said
we mustn’t stop there any longer or he would have to charge us rent—it
was the law, he said, and he went on to say in a sociable way that I was
looking pretty mouldy, and he wished he knew——

I shut him off pretty austerely, and said I hoped one might celebrate a
little, these days, especially when one was personally concerned.

‘Personally?’ he asked. ‘How?’

‘Because six hundred years ago an ancestor of mine signed the Compact.’

He reflected a moment, than looked me over and said:

‘Ancestor! It’s my opinion you signed it yourself. For of all the old
ancient relics that ever I—but never mind about that. What is it you are
waiting here for so long?’

I said:

‘I’m not waiting here so long at all. I’m waiting fifteen minutes till
they forget a glove and a book and go back and get them.’ Then I told
him who they were that I had come for.

He was very obliging, and began to shout inquiries to the tiers of heads
and shoulders projecting from the windows above us. Then a woman away up
there sang out:

‘Oh, they? Why, I got them a cab and they left here long ago—half-past
eight, I should say.’

It was annoying. I glanced at my watch, but didn’t say anything. The
officer said:

‘It is a quarter of twelve, you see. You should have inquired better.
You have been asleep three-quarters of an hour, and in such a sun as
this! You are baked—baked black. It is wonderful. And you will miss your
train, perhaps. You interest me greatly. What is your occupation?’

I said I was a courier. It seemed to stun him, and before he could come
to we were gone.

When I arrived in the third story of the hotel I found our quarters
vacant. I was not surprised. The moment a courier takes his eye off his
tribe they go shopping. The nearer it is to train time the surer they
are to go. I sat down to try and think out what I had best do next, but
presently the hall boy found me there, and said the Expedition had gone
to the station half an hour before. It was the first time I had known
them to do a rational thing, and it was very confusing. This is one of
the things that make a courier’s life so difficult and uncertain. Just
as matters are going the smoothest, his people will strike a lucid
interval, and down go all his arrangements to wreck and ruin.

The train was to leave at twelve noon sharp. It was now ten minutes
after twelve. I could be at the station in ten minutes. I saw I had no
great amount of leeway, for this was the lightning express, and on the
Continent the lightning expresses are pretty fastidious about getting
away some time during the advertised day. My people were the only ones
remaining in the waiting room; everybody else had passed through and
‘mounted the train,’ as they say in those regions. They were exhausted
with nervousness and fret, but I comforted them and heartened them up,
and we made our rush.

But no; we were out of luck again. The doorkeeper was not satisfied with
the tickets. He examined them cautiously, deliberately, suspiciously:
then glared at me awhile, and after that he called another official. The
two examined the tickets and called another official. These called
others, and the convention discussed and discussed, and gesticulated and
carried on until I begged that they would consider how time was flying,
and just pass a few resolutions and let us go. Then they said very
courteously that there was a defect in the tickets, and asked me where I
got them.

I judged I saw what the trouble was, now. You see, I had bought the
tickets in a cigar shop, and of course the tobacco smell was on them:
without doubt the thing they were up to was to work the tickets through
the Custom House and to collect duty on that smell. So I resolved to be
perfectly frank: it is sometimes the best way. I said:

‘Gentlemen, I will not deceive you. These railway tickets——’

‘Ah! pardon, monsieur! These are not railway tickets.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘is that the defect?’

‘Ah, truly yes, monsieur. These are lottery tickets, yes; and it is a
lottery which has been drawn two years ago.’

I affected to be greatly amused; it is all one can do in such
circumstances; it is all one can do, and yet there is no value in it; it
deceives nobody, and you can see that everybody around pities you and is
ashamed of you. One of the hardest situations in life, I think, is to be
full of grief and a sense of defeat and shabbiness that way, and yet
have to put on an outside of archness and gaiety, while all the time you
know that your own expedition, the treasures of your heart, and whose
love and reverence you are by the custom of our civilisation entitled
to, are being consumed with humiliation before strangers to see you
earning and getting a compassion, which is a stigma, a brand—a brand
which certifies you to be—oh, anything and everything which is fatal to
human respect.

I said, cheerily, it was all right, just one of those little accidents
that was likely to happen to anybody—I would have the right tickets in
two minutes, and we would catch the train yet, and, moreover, have
something to laugh about all through the journey. I did get the tickets
in time, all stamped and complete; but then it turned out that I
couldn’t take them, because, in taking so much pains about the two
missing members, I had skipped the bank and hadn’t the money. So then
the train left, and there didn’t seem to be anything to do but go back
to the hotel, which we did; but it was kind of melancholy and not much
said. I tried to start a few subjects, like scenery and
transubstantiation, and those sorts of things, but they didn’t seem to
hit the weather right.

We had lost our good rooms, but we got some others which were pretty
scattering, but would answer. I judged things would brighten now, but
the Head of the Expedition said, ‘Send up the trunks.’ It made me feel
pretty cold. There was a doubtful something about that trunk business. I
was almost sure of it. I was going to suggest——

But a wave of the hand sufficiently restrained me, and I was informed
that we would now camp for three days and see if we could rest up.

I said all right, never mind ringing; I would go down and attend to the
trunks myself. I got a cab and went straight to Mr. Charles Natural’s
place, and asked what order it was I had left there.

‘To send seven trunks to the hotel.’

‘And were you to bring any back?’

‘No.’

‘You are sure I didn’t tell you to bring back seven that would be found
piled in the lobby?’

‘Absolutely sure you didn’t.’

‘Then the whole fourteen are gone to Zurich or Jericho or somewhere, and
there is going to be more débris around that hotel when the
Expedition——’

I didn’t finish, because my mind was getting to be in a good deal of a
whirl, and when you are that way you think you have finished a sentence
when you haven’t, and you go mooning and dreaming away, and the first
thing you know you get run over by a dray or a cow or something.

I left the cab there—I forgot it—and on my way back I thought it all out
and concluded to resign, because otherwise I should be nearly sure to be
discharged. But I didn’t believe it would be a good idea to resign in
person; I could do it by message. So I sent for Mr. Ludi and explained
that there was a courier going to resign on account of incompatibility
or fatigue or something, and as he had four or five vacant days, I would
like to insert him into that vacancy if he thought he could fill it.
When everything was arranged I got him to go up and say to the
Expedition that, owing to an error made by Mr. Natural’s people, we were
out of trunks here, but would have plenty in Zurich, and we’d better
take the first train, freight, gravel, or construction, and move right
along.

He attended to that and came down with an invitation for me to go
up—yes, certainly; and, while we walked along over to the bank to get
money, and collect my cigars and tobacco, and to the cigar shop to trade
back the lottery tickets and get my umbrella, and to Mr. Natural’s to
pay that cab and send it away, and to the county jail to get my rubbers
and leave p. p. c. cards for the Mayor and Supreme Court, he described
the weather to me that was prevailing on the upper levels there with the
Expedition, and I saw that I was doing very well where I was.

I stayed out in the woods till 4 P.M., to let the weather moderate, and
then turned up at the station just in time to take the three o’clock
express for Zurich along with the Expedition, now in the hands of Ludi,
who conducted its complex affairs with little apparent effort or
inconvenience.

Well, I had worked like a slave while I was in office, and done the very
best I knew how; yet all that these people dwelt upon or seemed to care
to remember was the defects of my administration, not its creditable
features. They would skip over a thousand creditable features to remark
upon and reiterate and fuss about just one fact, till it seemed to me
they would wear it out; and not much of a fact, either, taken by
itself—the fact that I elected myself courier in Geneva, and put in work
enough to carry a circus to Jerusalem, and yet never even got my gang
out of the town. I finally said I didn’t wish to hear any more about the
subject, it made me tired. And I told them to their faces that I would
never be a courier again to save anybody’s life. And if I live long
enough I’ll prove it. I think it’s a difficult, brain-racking,
overworked, and thoroughly ungrateful office, and the main bulk of its
wages is a sore heart and a bruised spirit.




                          _THE GERMAN CHICAGO_


I feel lost, in Berlin. It has no resemblance to the city I had supposed
it was. There was once a Berlin, which I would have known, from
descriptions in books—the Berlin of the last century and the beginning
of the present one: a dingy city in a marsh, with rough streets, muddy
and lantern-lighted, dividing straight rows of ugly houses all alike,
compacted into blocks as square and plain and uniform and monotonous and
serious as so many dry-goods boxes. But that Berlin has disappeared. It
seems to have disappeared totally, and left no sign. The bulk of the
Berlin of to-day has about it no suggestion of a former period. The site
it stands on has traditions and a history, but the city itself has no
traditions and no history. It is a new city, the newest I have ever
seen. Chicago would seem venerable beside it; for there are many
old-looking districts in Chicago, but not many in Berlin. The main mass
of the city looks as if it had been built last week; the rest of it has
a just perceptibly graver tone, and looks as if it might be six or even
eight months old.

The next feature that strikes one is the spaciousness, the roominess of
the city. There is no other city, in any country, whose streets are so
generally wide. Berlin is not merely _a_ city of wide streets, it is
_the_ city of wide streets. As a wide-street city it has never had its
equal, in any age of the world. ‘Unter den Linden’ is three streets in
one; the Potsdamerstrasse is bordered on both sides by sidewalks which
are themselves wider than some of the historic thoroughfares of the old
European capitals; there seem to be no lanes or alleys; there are no
short-cuts; here and there, where several important streets empty into a
common centre, that centre’s circumference is of a magnitude calculated
to bring that word spaciousness into your mind again. The park in the
middle of the city is so huge that it calls up that expression once
more.

The next feature that strikes one is the straightness of the streets.
The short ones haven’t so much as a waver in them; the long ones stretch
out to prodigious distances and then tilt a little to the right or left,
then stretch out on another immense reach as straight as a ray of light.
A result of this arrangement is, that at night Berlin is an inspiring
sight to see. Gas and the electric light are employed with a wasteful
liberality, and so, wherever one goes, he has always double ranks of
brilliant lights stretching far down into the night on every hand, with
here and there a wide and splendid constellation of them spread out over
an intervening ‘Platz’; and between the interminable double procession
of street lamps one has the swarming and darting cab lamps, a lively and
pretty addition to the fine spectacle, for they counterfeit the rush and
confusion and sparkle of an invasion of fire-flies.

There is one other noticeable feature—the absolutely level surface of
the site of Berlin. Berlin—to capitulate—is newer to the eye than is any
other city, and also blonder of complexion and tidier; no other city has
such an air of roominess, freedom from crowding; no other city has so
many straight streets; and with Chicago it contests the chromo for
flatness of surface and for phenomenal swiftness of growth. Berlin is
the European Chicago. The two cities have about the same population—say
a million and a half. I cannot speak in exact terms, because I only know
what Chicago’s population was week before last; but at that time it was
about a million and a half. Fifteen years ago Berlin and Chicago were
large cities, of course, but neither of them was the giant it now is.

But now the parallels fail. Only parts of Chicago are stately and
beautiful, whereas all of Berlin is stately and substantial, and it is
not merely in parts but uniformly beautiful. There are buildings in
Chicago that are architecturally finer than any in Berlin, I think, but
what I have just said above is still true. These two flat cities would
lead the world for phenomenal good health if London were out of the way.
As it is, London leads, by a point or two. Berlin’s death rate is only
nineteen in the thousand. Fourteen years ago the rate was a third
higher.

Berlin is a surprise in a great many ways—in a multitude of ways, to
speak strongly and be exact. It seems to be the most governed city in
the world, but one must admit that it also seems to be the best
governed. Method and system are observable on every hand—in great
things, in little things, in all details, of whatsoever size. And it is
not method and system on paper, and there an end—it is method and system
in practice. It has a rule for everything, and puts the rule in force;
puts it in force against the poor and powerful alike, without favour or
prejudice. It deals with great matters and minute particulars with equal
faithfulness, and with a plodding and painstaking diligence and
persistency which compel admiration—and sometimes regret. There are
several taxes, and they are collected quarterly. Collected is the word;
they are not merely levied, they are collected—every time. This makes
light taxes. It is in cities and countries where a considerable part of
the community shirk payment that taxes have to be lifted to a burdensome
rate. Here the police keep coming, calmly and patiently, until you pay
your tax. They charge you five or ten cents per visit after the first
call. By experiment you will find that they will presently collect that
money.

In one respect the million and a half of Berlin’s population are like a
family; the head of this large family knows the names of its several
members, and where the said members are located, and when and where they
were born, and what they do for a living, and what their religious brand
is. Whoever comes to Berlin must furnish these particulars to the police
immediately; moreover, if he knows how long he is going to stay, he must
say so. If he take a house he will be taxed on the rent and taxed also
on his income. He will not be asked what his income is, and so he may
save some lies for home consumption. The police will estimate his income
from the house-rent he pays, and tax him on that basis.

Duties on imported articles are collected with inflexible fidelity, be
the sum large or little; but the methods are gentle, prompt, and full of
the spirit of accommodation. The postman attends to the whole matter for
you, in cases where the article comes by mail, and you have no trouble,
and suffer no inconvenience. The other day a friend of mine was informed
that there was a package in the post-office for him, containing a lady’s
silk belt with gold clasp, and a gold chain to hang a bunch of keys on.
In his first agitation he was going to try to bribe the postman to chalk
it through, but acted upon his sober second thought, and allowed the
matter to take its proper and regular course. In a little while the
postman brought the package and made these several collections: duty on
the silk belt, 7½ cents; duty on the gold chain, 10 cents; charge for
fetching the package, 5 cents. These devastating imposts are exacted for
the protection of German home industries.

The calm, quiet, courteous, cussed persistence of the police is the most
admirable thing I have encountered on this side. They undertook to
persuade me to send and get a passport for a Swiss maid whom we had
brought with us, and at the end of six weeks of patient, tranquil,
angelic daily effort they succeeded. I was not intending to give them
trouble, but I was lazy, and I thought they would get tired. Meanwhile
they probably thought I would be the one. It turned out just so.

One is not allowed to build unstable, unsafe, or unsightly houses in
Berlin; the result is this comely and conspicuously stately city, with
its security from conflagrations and break-downs. It is built of
architectural Gibraltars. The Building Commissioners inspect while the
building is going up. It has been found that this is better than to wait
till it falls down. These people are full of whims.

One is not allowed to cram poor folk into cramped and dirty tenement
houses. Each individual must have just so many cubic feet of room-space,
and sanitary inspections are systematic and frequent.

Everything is orderly. The fire brigade march in rank, curiously
uniformed, and so grave is their demeanour that they look like a
Salvation Army under conviction of sin. People tell me that when a fire
alarm is sounded, the firemen assemble calmly, answer to their names
when the roll is called, then proceed to the fire. There they are ranked
up, military fashion, and told off in detachments by the chief, who
parcels out to the detachments the several parts of the work which they
are to undertake in putting out that fire. This is all done with
low-voiced propriety, and strangers think these people are working a
funeral. As a rule the fire is confined to a single floor in these great
masses of bricks and masonry, and consequently there is little or no
interest attaching to a fire here for the rest of the occupants of the
house.

There are abundance of newspapers in Berlin, and there was also a
newsboy, but he died. At intervals of half a mile on the thoroughfares
there are booths, and it is at these that you buy your papers. There are
plenty of theatres, but they do not advertise in a loud way. There are
no big posters of any kind, and the display of vast type and of pictures
of actors and performance, framed on a big scale and done in rainbow
colours, is a thing unknown. If the big show-bills existed there would
be no place to exhibit them; for there are no poster-fences, and one
would not be allowed to disfigure dead walls with them. Unsightly things
are forbidden here; Berlin is a rest to the eye.

And yet the saunterer can easily find out what is going on at the
theatres. All over the city, at short distances apart, there are neat
round pillars eighteen feet high and about as thick as a hogshead, and
on these the little black-and-white theatre bills and other notices are
posted. One generally finds a group around each pillar reading these
things. There are plenty of things in Berlin worth importing to America.
It is these that I have particularly wished to make a note of. When
Buffalo Bill was here his biggest poster was probably not larger than
the top of an ordinary trunk.

There is a multiplicity of clean and comfortable horse-cars, but
whenever you think you know where a car is going to, you would better
stop ashore, because that car is not going to that place at all. The
car-routes are marvellously intricate, and often the drivers get lost
and are not heard of for years. The signs on the cars furnish no details
as to the course of the journey; they name the end of it, and then
experiment around to see how much territory they can cover before they
get there. The conductor will collect your fare over again, every few
miles, and give you a ticket which he hasn’t apparently kept any record
of, and you keep it till an inspector comes aboard by-and-by and tears a
corner off it (which he does not keep), then you throw the ticket away
and get ready to buy another. Brains are of no value when you are trying
to navigate Berlin in a horse-car. When the ablest of Brooklyn’s editors
was here on a visit he took a horse-car in the early morning and wore it
out trying to go to a point in the centre of the city. He was on board
all day and spent many dollars in fares, and then did not arrive at the
place which he had started to go to. This is the most thorough way to
see Berlin, but it is also the most expensive.

But there are excellent features about the car system, nevertheless. The
car will not stop for you to get on or off, except at certain places a
block or two apart, where there is a sign to indicate that that is a
halting station. This system saves many bones. There are twenty places
inside the car; when these seats are filled, no more can enter. Four or
five persons may stand on each platform—the law decrees the number—and
when these standing places are all occupied the next applicant is
refused. As there is no crowding, and as no rowdyism is allowed, women
stand on the platforms as well as men; they often stand there when there
are vacant seats inside, for these places are comfortable, there being
little or no jolting. A native tells me that when the first car was put
on, thirty or forty years ago, the public had such a terror of it that
they didn’t feel safe inside of it, or outside either. They made the
company keep a man at every crossing with a red flag in his hand. Nobody
would travel in the car except convicts on the way to the gallows. This
made business in only one direction, and the car had to go back light.
To save the company, the city government transferred the convict
cemetery to the other end of the line. This made traffic in both
directions, and kept the company from going under. This sounds like some
of the information which travelling foreigners are furnished with in
America. To my mind it has a doubtful ring about it.

The first-class cab is neat and trim, and has leather-cushion seats and
a swift horse. The second-class cab is an ugly and lubberly vehicle, and
is always old. It seems a strange thing that they have never built any
new ones. Still, if such a thing were done everybody that had time to
flock would flock to see it, and that would make a crowd, and the police
do not like crowds and disorder here. If there were an earthquake in
Berlin the police would take charge of it, and conduct it in that sort
of orderly way that would make you think it was a prayer meeting. That
is what an earthquake generally ends in, but this one would be different
from those others; it would be kind of soft and self-contained, like a
republican praying for a mugwump.

For a course (a quarter of an hour or less), one pays twenty-five cents
in a first-class cab, and fifteen cents in a second-class. The
first-class will take you along faster, for the second-class horse is
old—always old—as old as his cab, some authorities say—and ill-fed and
weak. He has been a first-class once, but has been degraded to
second-class for long and faithful service.

Still, he must take you as _far_ for fifteen cents as the other horse
takes you for twenty-five. If he can’t do his fifteen-minute distance in
fifteen minutes, he must still do the distance for the fifteen cents.
Any stranger can check the distance off—by means of the most curious map
I am acquainted with. It is issued by the city government and can be
bought in any shop for a trifle. In it every street is sectioned off,
like a string of long beads of different colours. Each long bead
represents a minute’s travel, and when you have covered fifteen of the
beads you have got your money’s worth. This map of Berlin is a
gay-coloured maze, and looks like pictures of the circulation of the
blood.

The streets are very clean. They are kept so—not by prayer and talk, and
the other New York methods, but by daily and hourly work with scrapers
and brooms; and when an asphalted street has been tidily scraped after a
rain or a light snowfall, they scatter clean sand over it. This saves
some of the horses from falling down. In fact, this is a city government
which seems to stop at no expense where the public convenience, comfort,
and health are concerned—except in one detail. That is the naming of the
streets and the numbering of the houses. Sometimes the name of a street
will change in the middle of a block. You will not find it out till you
get to the next corner and discover the new name on the wall, and of
course you don’t know just when the change happened.

The names are plainly marked on the corners—on all the corners—there are
no exceptions. But the numbering of the houses—there has never been
anything like it since original chaos. It is not possible that it was
done by this wise city government. At first one thinks it was done by an
idiot; but there is too much variety about it for that; an idiot could
not think of so many different ways of making confusion and propagating
blasphemy. The numbers run up one side the street and down the other.
That is endurable, but the rest isn’t. They often use one number for
three or four houses—and sometimes they put the number on only one of
the houses, and let you guess at the others. Sometimes they put a number
on a house—4, for instance—then put 4_a_, 4_b_, 4_c_, on the succeeding
houses, and one becomes old and decrepit before he finally arrives at 5.
A result of this systemless system is, that when you are at No. 1 in a
street, you haven’t any idea how far it may be to No. 150; it may be
only six or eight blocks, it may be a couple of miles. Frederick Street
is long, and is one of the great thoroughfares. The other day a man put
up his money behind the assertion that there were more refreshment
places in that street than numbers on the houses—and he won. There were
254 numbers and 257 refreshment places. Yet, as I have said, it is a
long street.

But the worst feature of all this complex business is, that in Berlin
the numbers do not travel in any one direction; no, they travel along
until they get to 50 or 60, perhaps, then suddenly you find yourself up
in the hundreds—140, maybe; the next will be 139—then you perceive by
that sign that the numbers are now travelling towards you from the
opposite direction. They will keep that sort of insanity up as long as
you travel that street; every now and then the numbers will turn and run
the other way. As a rule there is an arrow under the number, to show by
the direction of its flight which way the numbers are proceeding. There
are a good many suicides in Berlin—I have seen six reported in a single
day. There is always a deal of learned and laborious arguing and
ciphering going on as to the cause of this state of things. If they will
set to work and number their houses in a rational way, perhaps they will
find out what was the matter.

More than a month ago Berlin began to prepare to celebrate Professor
Virchow’s seventieth birthday. When the birthday arrived, the middle of
October, it seemed to me that all the world of science arrived with it;
deputation after deputation came, bringing the homage and reverence of
far cities and centres of learning, and during the whole of a long day
the hero of it sat and received such witness of his greatness as has
seldom been vouchsafed to any man in any walk of life in any time
ancient or modern. These demonstrations were continued in one form or
another day after day, and were presently merged in similar
demonstrations to his twin in science and achievement, Professor
Helmholtz, whose seventieth birthday is separated from Virchow’s by only
about three weeks; so nearly as this did these two extraordinary men
come to being born together. Two such births have seldom signalised a
single year in human history.

But perhaps the final and closing demonstration was peculiarly grateful
to them. This was a Commers given in their honour the other night, by a
thousand students. It was held in a huge hall, very long and very lofty,
which had five galleries, far above everybody’s head, which were crowded
with ladies—four or five hundred, I judged.

It was beautifully decorated with clustered flags and various ornamental
devices, and was brilliantly lighted. On the spacious floor of this
place were ranged, in files, innumerable tables, seating twenty-four
persons each, extending from one end of the great hall clear to the
other, and with narrow aisles between the files. In the centre, on one
side, was a high and tastefully decorated platform twenty or thirty feet
long, with a long table on it behind which sat the half dozen chiefs of
the givers of the Commers in the rich mediæval costumes of as many
different college corps. Behind these youths a band of musicians was
concealed. On the floor, directly in front of this platform, were half a
dozen tables which were distinguished from the outlying continent of
tables by being covered instead of left naked. Of these the central
table was reserved for the two heroes of the occasion and twenty
particularly eminent professors of the Berlin University, and the other
covered tables were for the occupancy of a hundred less distinguished
professors.

I was glad to be honoured with a place at the table of the two heroes of
the occasion, although I was not really learned enough to deserve it.
Indeed there was a pleasant strangeness in being in such company; to be
thus associated with twenty-three men who forget more every day than I
ever knew. Yet there was nothing embarrassing about it, because loaded
men and empty ones look about alike, and I knew that to that multitude
there I was a professor. It required but little art to catch the ways
and attitude of those men and imitate them, and I had no difficulty in
looking as much like a professor as anybody there.

We arrived early; so early that only Professors Virchow and Helmholtz
and a dozen guests of the special tables were ahead of us, and three or
four hundred students. But people were arriving in floods, now, and
within fifteen minutes all but the special tables were occupied, and the
great house was crammed, the aisles included. It was said that there
were four thousand men present. It was a most animated scene, there is
no doubt about that; it was a stupendous beehive. At each end of each
table stood a corps student in the uniform of his corps. These quaint
costumes are of brilliant-coloured silks and velvets, with sometimes a
high plumed hat, sometimes a broad Scotch cap, with a great plume wound
about it, sometimes—oftenest—a little shallow silk cap on the tip of the
crown, like an inverted saucer; sometimes the pantaloons are snow-white,
sometimes of other colours; the boots in all cases come up well above
the knee; and in all cases also white gauntlets are worn; the sword is a
rapier with a bowl-shaped guard for the hand, painted in several
colours. Each corps has a uniform of its own, and all are of rich
material, brilliant in colour, and exceedingly picturesque; for they are
survivals of the vanished costumes of the Middle Ages, and they
reproduce for us the time when men were beautiful to look at. The
student who stood guard at our end of the table was of grave countenance
and great frame and grace of form, and he was doubtless an accurate
reproduction, clothes and all, of some ancestor of his of two or three
centuries ago—a reproduction as far as the outside, the animal man,
goes, I mean.

As I say, the place was now crowded. The nearest aisle was packed with
students standing up, and they made a fence which shut off the rest of
the house from view. As far down this fence as you could see, all these
wholesome young faces were turned in one direction, all these intent and
worshipping eyes were centred upon one spot—the place where Virchow and
Helmholtz sat. The boys seemed lost to everything, unconscious of their
own existence; they devoured these two intellectual giants with their
eyes, they feasted upon them, and the worship that was in their hearts
shone in their faces. It seemed to me that I would rather be flooded
with a glory like that, instinct with sincerity, innocent of
self-seeking, than win a hundred battles and break a million hearts.

There was a big mug of beer in front of each of us, and more to come
when wanted. There was also a quarto pamphlet containing the words of
the songs to be sung. After the names of the officers of the feast were
these words in large type:

  _Während des Kommerses herrscht allgemeiner Burgfriede._

I was not able to translate this to my satisfaction, but a professor
helped me out. This was his explanation: The students in uniform belong
to different college corps; not all students belong to corps; none join
the corps except those who enjoy fighting. The corps students fight
duels with swords every week, one corps challenging another corps to
furnish a certain number of duellists for the occasion, and it is only
on this battle-field that students of different corps exchange
courtesies. In common life they do not drink with each other or speak.
The above line now translates itself: There is truce during the Commers,
war is laid aside, and fellowship takes its place.

Now the performance began. The concealed band played a piece of martial
music; then there was a pause. The students on the platform rose to
their feet, the middle one gave a toast to the Emperor, then all the
house rose, mugs in hand. At the call ‘One-two-three!’ all glasses were
drained and then brought down with a slam on the tables in unison. The
result was as good an imitation of thunder as I have ever heard. From
now on, during an hour, there was singing, in mighty chorus. During each
interval between songs a number of the special guests—the
professors—arrived. There seemed to be some signal whereby the students
on the platform were made aware that a professor had arrived at the
remote door of entrance; for you would see them suddenly rise to their
feet, strike an erect military attitude, then draw their swords; the
swords of all their brethren standing guard at the innumerable tables
would flash from the scabbards and be held aloft—a handsome spectacle.
Three clear bugle notes would ring out, then all these swords would come
down with a crash, twice repeated, on the tables, and be uplifted and
held aloft again; then in the distance you would see the gay uniforms
and uplifted swords of a guard of honour, clearing the way and
conducting the guest down to his place. The songs were stirring; the
immense outpour from young life and young lungs, the crash of swords and
the thunder of the beer-mugs, gradually worked a body up to what seemed
the last possible summit of excitement. It surely seemed to me that I
had reached that summit, that I had reached my limit, and that there was
no higher lift desirable for me. When apparently the last eminent guest
had long ago taken his place, again those three bugle blasts rang out,
and once more the swords leaped from their scabbards. Who might this
late comer be? Nobody was interested to inquire. Still, indolent eyes
were turned towards the distant entrance; we saw the silken gleam and
the lifted swords of a guard of honour ploughing through the remote
crowds. Then we saw that end of the house rising to its feet; saw it
rise abreast the advancing guard all along, like a wave. This supreme
honour had been offered to no one before. Then there was an excited
whisper at our table—‘MOMMSEN!’ and the whole house rose. Rose and
shouted and stamped and clapped, and banged the beer-mugs. Just simply a
storm. Then the little man with his long hair and Emersonian face edged
his way past us and took his seat. I could have touched him with my
hand—Mommsen!—think of it!

This was one of those immense surprises that can happen only a few times
in one’s life. I was not dreaming of him, he was to me only a giant
myth, a world-shadowing spectre, not a reality. The surprise of it all
can be only comparable to a man’s suddenly coming upon Mont Blanc, with
its awful form towering into the sky, when he didn’t suspect he was in
its neighbourhood. I would have walked a great many miles to get a sight
of him, and here he was, without trouble or tramp or cost of any kind.
Here he was, clothed in a Titanic, deceptive modesty which made him look
like other men. Here he was, carrying the Roman world and all the Cæsars
in his hospitable skull, and doing it as easily as that other luminous
vault, the skull of the universe, carries the Milky Way and the
constellations.

One of the professors said that once upon a time an American young lady
was introduced to Mommsen, and found herself badly scared and
speechless. She dreaded to see his mouth unclose, for she was expecting
him to choose a subject several miles above her comprehension, and
didn’t suppose he _could_ get down to the world that other people lived
in; but when his remark came, her terrors disappeared:

‘Well, how do you do? Have you read Howells’s last book? _I_ think it’s
his best.’

The active ceremonies of the evening closed with the speeches of
welcome, delivered by two students, and the replies made by Professors
Virchow and Helmholtz.

Virchow has long been a member of the city government of Berlin. He
works as hard for the city as does any other Berlin alderman, and gets
the same pay—nothing. I don’t know that we in America could venture to
ask our most illustrious citizen to serve in a board of aldermen, and if
we might venture it I am not positively sure that we could elect him.
But here the municipal system is such that the best men in the city
consider it an honour to serve gratis as aldermen, and the people have
the good sense to prefer these men, and to elect them year after year.
As a result, Berlin is a thoroughly well-governed city. It is a free
city; its affairs are not meddled with by the State; they are managed by
its own citizens, and after methods of their own devising.




                  _A PETITION TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND_


                                               HARTFORD: _Nov. 6, 1887_.

Madam,—You will remember that last May Mr. Edward Bright, the clerk of
the Inland Revenue Office, wrote me about a tax which he said was due
from me to the Government on books of mine published in London—that is
to say, an income tax on the royalties. I do not know Mr. Bright, and it
is embarrassing to me to correspond with strangers; for I was raised in
the country and have always lived there, the early part in Marion
county, Missouri, before the war, and this part in Hartford county,
Connecticut, near Bloomfield, and about eight miles this side of
Farmington, though some call it nine, which it is impossible to be, for
I have walked it many and many a time in considerably under three hours,
and General Hawley says he has done it in two and a quarter, which is
not likely; so it has seemed best that I write your Majesty. It is true
that I do not know your Majesty personally, but I have met the Lord
Mayor, and if the rest of the family are like him, it is but just that
it should be named royal; and likewise plain that in a family matter
like this, I cannot better forward my case than to frankly carry it to
the head of the family itself. I have also met the Prince of Wales once,
in the fall of 1873, but it was not in any familiar way, but in a quite
informal way, being casual, and was, of course, a surprise to us both.
It was in Oxford Street, just where you come out off Oxford into Regent
Circus, and just as he turned up one side of the circle at the head of a
procession, I went down the other side on the top of an omnibus. He will
remember me on account of a grey coat with flap pockets that I wore, as
I was the only person on the omnibus that had on that kind of a coat; I
remember him, of course, as easy as I would a comet. He looked quite
proud and satisfied, but that is not to be wondered at, he has a good
situation. And once I called on your Majesty, but you were out.

But that is no matter, it happens with everybody. However, I have
wandered a little away from what I started about. It was this way. Young
Bright wrote my London publishers, Chatto and Windus—their place is the
one on the left as you come down Piccadilly, about a block and a half
above where the minstrel show is—he wrote them that he wanted them to
pay income tax on the royalties of some foreign authors, namely, ‘Miss
De La Ramé (Ouida), Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Mr. Francis Bret Harte,
and Mr. Mark Twain.’ Well, Mr. Chatto diverted him from the others, and
tried to divert him from me, but in this case he failed. So then young
Bright wrote me. And not only that, but he sent me a printed document
the size of a newspaper, for me to sign, all over in different places.
Well, it was that kind of a document that the more you study it the more
it undermines you, and makes everything seem uncertain to you; and so,
while in that condition, and really not responsible for my acts, I wrote
Mr. Chatto to pay the tax, and charge to me. Of course my idea was, that
it was for only one year, and that the tax would be only about one per
cent. or along there somewhere, but last night I met Professor Sloane of
Princeton—you may not know him, but you have probably seen him every now
and then, for he goes to England a good deal; a large man and very
handsome, and absorbed in thought, and if you have noticed such a man on
platforms after the train is gone, that is the one, he generally gets
left, like all those specialists and other scholars who know everything
but how to apply it—and he said it was a back tax for _three_ years, and
not one per cent. but two and a half!

That gave what had seemed a little matter a new aspect. I then began to
study the printed document again, to see if I could find anything in it
that might modify my case, and I had what seems to be a quite promising
success. For instance, it opens thus—polite and courteous, the way those
English Government documents always are—I do not say that to hear myself
talk, it is just the fact, and it is a credit:

‘To MR. MARK TWAIN: IN PURSUANCE of the Acts of Parliament for granting
to Her Majesty Duties and Profits,’ &c.

I had not noticed that before. My idea had been that it was for the
Government, and so I wrote _to_ the Government; but now I saw that it
was a private matter, a family matter, and that the proceeds went to
yourself, not the Government. I would always rather treat with
principals, and I am glad I noticed that clause. With a principal one
can always get at a fair and right understanding, whether it is about
potatoes, or continents, or any of those things, or something entirely
different; for the size or nature of the thing does not affect the fact;
whereas, as a rule, a subordinate is more or less troublesome to
satisfy. And yet this is not against them, but the other way. They have
their duties to do, and must be harnessed to rules, and not allowed any
discretion. Why, if your Majesty should equip young Bright with
discretion—I mean his own discretion—it is an even guess that he would
discretion you out of house and home in two or three years. He would not
_mean_ to get the family into straits, but that would be the upshot,
just the same. Now then, with Bright out of the way, this is not going
to be any Irish question; it is going to be settled pleasantly and
satisfactorily for all of us, and when it is finished your Majesty is
going to stand with the American people just as you have stood for fifty
years, and surely no monarch can require better than that of an alien
nation. They do not all pay a British income tax, but the most of them
will in time, for we have shoals of new authors coming along every year;
and of the population of your Canada, upwards of four-fifths are wealthy
Americans, and more going there all the time.

Well, another thing which I noticed in the document was an item about
‘Deductions.’ I will come to that presently, your Majesty. And another
thing was this: that Authors are not mentioned in the document at all.
No, we have ‘Quarries, Mines, Iron Works, Salt Springs, Alum Mines,
Water Works, Canals, Docks, Drains, Levels, Fishings, Fairs, Tolls,
Bridges, Ferries,’ and so forth and so forth and so on—well, as much as
a yard or a yard and a half of them, I should think—anyway a very large
quantity or number. I read along—down, and down, and down the list,
further, and further, and further, and as I approached the bottom my
hopes began to rise higher and higher, because I saw that everything in
England, _that_ far, was taxed by name and in detail, except, perhaps,
the family, and may be Parliament, and yet still no mention of Authors.
Apparently they were going to be overlooked. And sure enough, they were!
My heart gave a great bound. But I was too soon. There was a footnote,
in Mr. Bright’s hand, which said: ‘You are taxed under Schedule D,
Section 14.’ I turned to that place, and found these three things:
‘Trades, Offices, Gas Works.’

Of course, after a moment’s reflection, hope came up again, and then
certainty: Mr. Bright was in error, and clear off the track; for
Authorship is not a Trade, it is an inspiration; Authorship does not
keep an Office, its habitation is all out under the sky, and
everywhere where the winds are blowing and the sun is shining and the
creatures of God are free. Now then, since I have no Trade and keep no
Office, I am not taxable under Schedule D, Section 14. Your Majesty
sees that; so I will go on to that other thing that I spoke of, the
‘Deductions’—deductions from my tax which I may get allowed, under
conditions. Mr. Bright says all deductions to be claimed by me must be
restricted to the provisions made in Paragraph No. 8, entitled ‘Wear
and Tear of Machinery or Plant.’ This is curious, and shows how far he
has gotten away on his wrong course after once he has got started
wrong; for Offices and Trades do not have Plant, they do not have
Machinery, such a thing was never heard of; and, moreover, they do not
wear and tear. You see that, your Majesty, and that it is true. Here
is the Paragraph No. 8:

‘Amount claimed as a deduction for diminished value by reason of Wear
and Tear, where the Machinery or Plant belongs to the Person or Company
carrying on the Concern, or is let to such Person or Company so that the
Lessee is bound to maintain and deliver over the same in good
condition:—

  _Amount_ £.......................’

There it is—the very words.

I could answer Mr. Bright thus:

It is my pride to say that my Brain is my Plant; and I do not claim any
deduction for diminished value by reason of Wear and Tear, for the
reason that it does not wear and tear, but stays sound and whole all the
time. Yes, I could say to him, my Brain is my Plant, my Skull is my
Workshop, my Hand is my Machinery, and I am the Person carrying on the
Concern; it is not leased to anybody, and so there is no Lessee bound to
maintain and deliver over the same in good condition. There! I do not
wish to any way overrate this argument and answer, dashed off just so,
and not a word of it altered from the way I first wrote it, your
Majesty, but, indeed, it does seem to pulverise that young fellow, you
can see that yourself. But that is all I say; I stop there; I never
pursue a person after I have got him down.

Having thus shown your Majesty that I am not taxable, but am the victim
of the error of a clerk who mistakes the nature of my commerce, it only
remains for me to beg that you will of your justice annul my letter that
I spoke of, so that my publisher can keep back that tax-money which, in
the confusion and aberration caused by the document, I ordered him to
pay. You will not miss the sum, but this is a hard year for authors; and
as for lectures, I do not suppose your Majesty ever saw such a dull
season.

With always great, and ever increasing, respect, I beg to sign myself
your Majesty’s servant to command,

                                                             MARK TWAIN.

 HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN, LONDON.




                      _A MAJESTIC LITERARY FOSSIL_


If I were required to guess off-hand, and without collusion with higher
minds, what is the bottom cause of the amazing material and intellectual
advancement of the last fifty years, I should guess that it was the
modern-born and previously nonexistent disposition on the part of men to
believe that a new idea can have value. With the long roll of the mighty
names of history present in our minds, we are not privileged to doubt
that for the past twenty or thirty centuries every conspicuous
civilisation in the world has produced intellects able to invent and
create the things which make our day a wonder; perhaps we may be
justified in inferring, then, that the reason they did not do it was
that the public reverence for old ideas and hostility to new ones always
stood in their way, and was a wall they could not break down or climb
over. The prevailing tone of old books regarding new ideas is one of
suspicion and uneasiness at times, and at other times contempt. By
contrast, our day is indifferent to old ideas, and even considers that
their age makes their value questionable, but jumps at a new idea with
enthusiasm and high hope—a hope which is high because it has not been
accustomed to being disappointed. I make no guess as to just when this
disposition was born to us, but it certainly is ours, was not possessed
by any century before us, is our peculiar mark and badge, and is
doubtless the bottom reason why we are a race of lightning-shod
Mercuries, and proud of it—instead of being, like our ancestors, a race
of plodding crabs, and proud of that.

So recent is this change from a three or four thousand year twilight to
the flash and glare of open day that I have walked in both, and yet am
not old. Nothing is to-day as it was when I was an urchin; but when I
was an urchin, nothing was much different from what it had always been
in this world. Take a single detail, for example—medicine. Galen could
have come into my sick-room at any time during my first seven years—I
mean any day when it wasn’t fishing weather, and there wasn’t any choice
but school or sickness—and he could have sat down there and stood my
doctor’s watch without asking a question. He would have smelt around
among the wilderness of cups and bottles and phials on the table and the
shelves, and missed not a stench that used to glad him two thousand
years before, nor discovered one that was of a later date. He would have
examined me, and run across only one disappointment—I was already
salivated; I would have him there; for I was always salivated, calomel
was so cheap. He would get out his lancet then; but I would have him
again; our family doctor didn’t allow blood to accumulate in the system.
However, he could take dipper and ladle, and freight me up with old
familiar doses that had come down from Adam to his time and mine; and he
could go out with a wheelbarrow and gather weeds and offal, and build
some more, while those others were getting in their work. And if our
reverend doctor came and found him there, he would be dumb with awe, and
would get down and worship him. Whereas, if Galen should appear among us
to-day, he could not stand anybody’s watch; he would inspire no awe; he
would be told he was a back number, and it would surprise him to see
that that fact counted against him, instead of in his favour. He
wouldn’t know our medicines; he wouldn’t know our practice; and the
first time he tried to introduce his own, we would hang him.

This introduction brings me to my literary relic. It is a _Dictionary of
Medicine_, by Dr. James, of London, assisted by Mr. Boswell’s Doctor
Samuel Johnson, and is a hundred and fifty years old, it having been
published at the time of the rebellion of ‘45. If it had been sent
against the Pretender’s troops there probably wouldn’t have been a
survivor. In 1861 this deadly book was still working the cemeteries—down
in Virginia. For three generations and a half it had been going quietly
along, enriching the earth with its slain. Up to its last free day it
was trusted and believed in, and its devastating advice taken, as was
shown by notes inserted between its leaves. But our troops captured it
and brought it home, and it has been out of business since. These
remarks from its preface are in the true spirit of the olden time,
sodden with worship of the old, disdain of the new:

‘If we inquire into the Improvements which have been made by the
Moderns, we shall be forced to confess that we have so little Reason to
value ourselves beyond the Antients, or to be tempted to contemn them,
that we cannot give stronger or more convincing Proofs of our own
Ignorance, as well as our Pride.

‘Among all the systematical Writers, I think there are very few who
refuse the Preference to _Hieron, Fabricius ab Aquapendente_, as a
Person of unquestion’d Learning and Judgment; and yet is he not asham’d
to let his Readers know that _Celsus_ among the Latins, _Paulus
Aegineta_ among the Greeks, and _Albucasis_ among the Arabians, whom I
am unwilling to place among the Moderns, tho’ he liv’d but six hundred
Years since, are the Triumvirate to whom he principally stands indebted,
for the Assistance he had receiv’d from them in composing his excellent
Book.

‘[In a previous paragraph are puffs of Galen, Hippocrates, and other
débris of the Old Silurian Period of Medicine.] How many Operations are
there now in Use which were unknown to the Antients?’

That is true. The surest way for a nation’s scientific men to prove that
they were proud and ignorant was to claim to have found out something
fresh in the course of a thousand years or so. Evidently the people of
this book’s day regarded themselves as children, and their remote
ancestors as the only grown-up people that had existed. Consider the
contrast: without offence, without over-egotism, our own scientific men
may and do regard themselves as grown people and their grandfathers as
children. The change here presented is probably the most sweeping that
has ever come over mankind in the history of the race. It is the utter
reversal, in a couple of generations, of an attitude which had been
maintained without challenge or interruption from the earliest
antiquity. It amounts to creating man over again on a new plan; he was a
canal boat before, he is an ocean greyhound to-day. The change from
reptile to bird was not more tremendous, and it took longer.

It is curious. If you read between the lines what this author says about
Brer Albucasis, you detect that in venturing to compliment him he has to
whistle a little to keep his courage up, because Albucasis ‘liv’d but
six hundred Years since,’ and therefore came so uncomfortably near being
a ‘modern’ that one couldn’t respect him without risk.

Phlebotomy, Venesection—terms to signify bleeding—are not often heard in
our day, because we have ceased to believe that the best way to make a
bank or a body healthy is to squander its capital; but in our author’s
time the physician went around with a hatful of lancets on his person
all the time, and took a hack at every patient whom he found still
alive. He robbed his man of pounds and pounds of blood at a single
operation. The details of this sort in this book make terrific reading.
Apparently even the healthy did not escape, but were bled twelve times a
year, on a particular day of the month, and exhaustively purged besides.
Here is a specimen of the vigorous old-time practice; it occurs in our
author’s adoring biography of a Doctor Aretæus, a licensed assassin of
Homer’s time, or thereabouts:

‘In a Quinsey he used Venesection, and allow’d the Blood to flow till
the Patient was ready to faint away.’

There is no harm in trying to cure a headache—in our day. You can’t do
it, but you get more or less entertainment out of trying, and that is
something; besides, you live to tell about it, and that is more. A
century or so ago you could have had the first of these features in rich
variety, but you might fail of the other once—and once would do. I
quote:

‘As Dissections of Persons who have died of severe Headaches, which have
been related by Authors, are too numerous to be inserted in this Place,
we shall here abridge some of the most curious and important
Observations relating to this Subject, collected by the celebrated
_Bonetus_.’

The celebrated Bonetus’s ‘Observation No. 1’ seems to me a sufficient
sample, all by itself, of what people used to have to stand any time
between the creation of the world and the birth of your father and mine
when they had the disastrous luck to get a ‘Head-ach’:

‘A certain Merchant, about forty Years of Age, of a Melancholic Habit,
and deeply involved in the Cares of the World, was, during the Dog-days,
seiz’d with a violent pain of his Head, which some time after oblig’d
him to keep his Bed.

‘I, being call’d, order’d Venesection in the Arms, the Application of
Leeches to the Vessels of his Nostrils, Forehead, and Temples, as also
to those behind his Ears; I likewise prescrib’d the Application of
Cupping-glasses, with Scarification, to his Back: But, notwithstanding
these Precautions, he dy’d. If any Surgeon, skill’d in Arteriotomy, had
been present, I should have also order’d that Operation.’

I looked for ‘Arteriotomy’ in this same Dictionary, and found this
definition, ‘The opening of an Artery with a View of taking away Blood.’
Here was a person who was being bled in the arms, forehead, nostrils,
back, temples, and behind the ears, yet the celebrated Bonetus was not
satisfied, but wanted to open an artery, ‘with a View’ to inserting a
pump, probably. ‘Notwithstanding these Precautions’—he dy’d. No art of
speech could more quaintly convey this butcher’s innocent surprise. Now
that we know what the celebrated Bonetus did when he wanted to relieve a
Head-ach, it is no trouble to infer that if he wanted to comfort a man
that had a Stomach-ach he disembowelled him.

I have given one ‘Observation’—a single Head-ach case; but the
celebrated Bonetus follows it with eleven more. Without enlarging upon
the matter, I merely note this coincidence—they all ‘dy’d.’ Not one of
these people got well; yet this obtuse hyena sets down every little gory
detail of the several assassinations as complacently as if he imagined
he was doing a useful and meritorious work in perpetuating the methods
of his crimes. ‘Observations,’ indeed! They are confessions.

According to this book, ‘the Ashes of an Ass’s hoof mix’d with Woman’s
milk cures chilblains.’ Length of time required not stated. Another
item: ‘The constant Use of Milk is bad for the Teeth, and causes them to
rot, and loosens the Gums.’ Yet in our day babies use it constantly
without hurtful results. This author thinks you ought to wash out your
mouth with wine before venturing to drink milk. Presently, when we come
to notice what fiendish decoctions those people introduced into their
stomachs by way of medicine, we shall wonder that they could have been
afraid of milk.

It appears that they had false teeth in those days. They were made of
ivory sometimes, sometimes of bone, and were thrust into the natural
sockets, and lashed to each other and to the neighbouring teeth with
wires or with silk threads. They were not to eat with, nor to laugh
with, because they dropped out when not in repose. You could smile with
them, but you had to practise first, or you would overdo it. They were
not for business, but just decoration. They filled the bill according to
their lights.

This author says ‘the Flesh of Swine nourishes above all other
eatables.’ In another place he mentions a number of things, and says
‘these are very easy to be digested; so is Pork.’ This is probably a
lie. But he is pretty handy in that line; and when he hasn’t anything of
the sort in stock himself he gives some other expert an opening. For
instance, under the head of ‘Attractives’ he introduces Paracelsus, who
tells of a nameless ‘Specific’—quantity of it not set down—which is able
to draw a hundred pounds of flesh to itself—distance not stated—and then
proceeds, ‘It happened in our own Days that an Attractive of this Kind
drew a certain Man’s Lungs up into his Mouth, by which he had the
Misfortune to be suffocated.’ This is more than doubtful. In the first
place, his Mouth couldn’t accommodate his Lungs—in fact, his Hat
couldn’t; secondly, his Heart being more eligibly Situated, it would
have got the Start of his Lungs, and being a lighter Body, it would have
Sail’d in ahead and Occupied the Premises; thirdly, you will Take
Notice, a Man with his Heart in his Mouth hasn’t any Room left for his
Lungs—he has got all he can Attend to; and, finally, the Man must have
had the Attractive in his Hat, and when he saw what was going to Happen
he would have Remov’d it and Sat Down on it. Indeed he would; and then
how could it Choke him to Death? I don’t believe the thing ever happened
at all.

Paracelsus adds this effort: ‘I myself saw a Plaister which attracted as
much Water as was sufficient to fill a Cistern; and by these very
Attractives Branches may be torn from Trees; and, which is still more
surprising, a Cow may be carried up into the Air.’ Paracelsus is dead
now; he was always straining himself that way.

They liked a touch of mystery along with their medicine in the olden
time; and the medicine-man of that day, like the medicine-man of our
Indian tribes, did what he could to meet the requirement:

‘_Arcanum._ A Kind of Remedy whose Manner of Preparation, or singular
Efficacy, is industriously concealed, in order to enhance its Value. By
the Chymists it is generally defined a thing secret, incorporeal, and
immortal, which cannot be Known by Man, unless by Experience; for it is
the Virtue of every thing, which operates a thousand times more than the
thing itself.’

To me the butt end of this explanation is not altogether clear. A little
of what they knew about natural history in the early times is exposed
here and there in the _Dictionary_.

‘_The Spider._ It is more common than welcome in Houses. Both the Spider
and its Web are used in Medicine: The Spider is said to avert the
Paroxysms of Fevers, if it be apply’d to the Pulse of the Wrist, or the
Temples; but it is peculiarly recommended against a Quartan, being
enclosed in the Shell of a Hazlenut.

‘Among approved Remedies, I find that the distill’d Water of Black
Spiders is an excellent Cure for Wounds, and that this was one of the
choice Secrets of Sir Walter Raleigh.

‘The Spider which some call the Catcher, or Wolf, being beaten into a
Plaister, then sew’d up in Linen, and apply’d to the Forehead or
Temples, prevents the Returns of a Tertian.

‘There is another Kind of Spider, which spins a white, fine, and thick
Web. One of this Sort, wrapp’d in Leather, and hung about the Arm, will
avert the Fit of a Quartan. Boil’d in Oil of Roses, and instilled into
the Ears, it eases Pains in those Parts. _Dioscorides, Lib. 2, Cap. 68._

‘Thus we find that Spiders have in all Ages been celebrated for their
febrifuge Virtues; and it is worthy of Remark, that a Spider is usually
given to Monkeys, and is esteem’d a sovereign Remedy for the Disorders
those Animals are principally subject to.’

Then follows a long account of how a dying woman, who had suffered nine
hours a day with an ague during eight weeks, and who had been bled dry
some dozens of times meantime without apparent benefit, was at last
forced to swallow several wads of ‘Spiders-web,’ whereupon she
straightway mended, and promptly got well. So the sage is full of
enthusiasm over the spider-webs, and mentions only in the most casual
way the discontinuance of the daily bleedings, plainly never suspecting
that this had anything to do with the cure.

‘As concerning the venomous Nature of Spiders, _Scaliger_ takes notice
of a certain Species of them (which he had forgotten), whose Poison was
of so great Force as to affect one _Vincentinus_ thro’ the Sole of his
Shoe, by only treading on it.’

The sage takes that in without a strain, but the following case was a
trifle too bulky for him, as his comment reveals:

‘In Gascony, observes _Scaliger_, there is a very small Spider, which,
running over a Looking-glass, will crack the same by the Force of her
Poison. (_A mere Fable._)’

But he finds no fault with the following facts:

‘Remarkable is the Enmity recorded between this Creature and the
Serpent, as also the Toad: Of the former it is reported, That, lying (as
he thinks securely) under the Shadow of some Tree, the Spider lets
herself down by her Thread, and, striking her Proboscis or Sting into
the Head, with that Force and Efficacy, injecting likewise her venomous
Juice, that, wringing himself about, he immediately grows giddy, and
quickly after dies.

‘When the Toad is bit or stung in Fight with this Creature, the Lizard,
Adder, or other that is poisonous, she finds relief from Plantain, to
which she resorts. In her Combat with the Toad, the Spider useth the
same Stratagem, as with the Serpent, hanging by her own Thread from the
Bough of some Tree, and striking her Sting into her enemy’s Head, upon
which the other, enraged, swells up, and sometimes bursts.

‘To this Effect is the Relation of _Erasmus_, which he saith he had from
one of the Spectators, of a Person lying along upon the Floor of his
Chamber, in the Summer-time, to sleep in a supine Posture, when a Toad,
creeping out of some green Rushes, brought just before in, to adorn the
Chimney, gets upon his Face, and with his Feet sits across his Lips. To
force off the Toad, says the Historian, would have been accounted sudden
Death to the Sleeper; and to leave her there, very cruel and dangerous;
so that upon Consultation it was concluded to find out a Spider, which,
together with her Web, and the Window she was fasten’d to, was brought
carefully, and so contrived as to be held perpendicularly to the Man’s
Face; which was no sooner done, but the Spider, discovering his Enemy,
let himself down, and struck in his Dart, afterwards betaking himself up
again to his Web; the Toad swell’d, but as yet kept his Station: The
second Wound is given quickly after by the Spider, upon which he swells
yet more, but remain’d alive still.—The Spider, coming down again by his
Thread, gives the third Blow; and the Toad, taking off his Feet from
over the Man’s Mouth, fell off dead.’

To which the sage appends this grave remark, ‘And so much for the
historical Part.’ Then he passes on to a consideration of ‘the Effects
and Cure of the Poison.’

One of the most interesting things about this tragedy is the double sex
of the Toad, and also of the Spider.

Now the sage quotes from one Turner:

‘I remember, when a very young Practitioner, being sent for to a certain
Woman, whose Custom was usually, when she went to the Cellar by
Candlelight, to go also a Spider-hunting, setting Fire to their Webs,
and burning them with the Flame of the Candle still as she pursued them.
It happen’d at length, after this Whimsy had been follow’d a long time,
one of them sold his Life much dearer than those Hundreds she had
destroy’d; for, lighting upon the melting Tallow of her Candle, near the
Flame, and his legs being entangled therein, so that he could not
extricate himself, the Flame or Heat coming on, he was made a Sacrifice
to his cruel Persecutor, who, delighting her Eyes with the Spectacle,
still waiting for the Flame to take hold of him, he presently burst with
a great Crack, and threw his Liquor, some into her Eyes, but mostly upon
her Lips; by means of which, flinging away her Candle, she cry’d out for
Help, as fansying herself kill’d already with the Poison. However, in
the Night, her Lips swell’d up excessively, and one of her Eyes was much
inflam’d; also her Tongue and Gums were somewhat affected; and, whether
from the Nausea excited by the Thoughts of the Liquor getting into her
Mouth, or from the poisonous Impressions communicated by the Nervous
_Fibrillæ_ of those Parts to those of the Ventricle, a continual
Vomiting attended: To take off which, when I was call’d, I order’d a
Glass of mull’d Sack, with a Scruple of Salt of Wormwood, and some hours
after a Theriacal Bolus, which she flung up again. I embrocated the Lips
with the Oil of Scorpions mix’d with the Oil of Roses; and, in
Consideration of the Ophthalmy, tho’ I was not certain but the Heat of
the Liquor, rais’d by the Flame of the Candle before the Body of the
Creature burst, might, as well as the Venom, excite the Disturbance,
(altho’ Mr. _Boyle’s_ Case of a Person blinded by this Liquor dropping
from the living Spider, makes the latter sufficient;) yet observing the
great Tumefaction of the Lips, together with the other Symptoms not
likely to arise from simple Heat, I was inclin’d to believe a real
Poison in the Case; and therefore not daring to let her Blood in the Arm
[If a man’s throat were cut in those old days, the doctor would come and
bleed the other end of him]. I did, however, with good Success, set
Leeches to her Temples, which took off much of the Inflammation; and her
Pain was likewise abated, by instilling into her Eyes a thin Mucilage of
the Seeds of Quinces and white Poppies extracted with Rose-water; yet
the Swelling on the Lips increased; upon which, in the Night, she wore a
Cataplasm prepared by boiling the Leaves of Scordium, Rue, and
Elderflowers, and afterwards thicken’d with the Meal of Vetches. In the
mean time, her Vomiting having left her, she had given her, between
whiles, a little Draught of distill’d Water of Carduus Benedictus and
Scordium, with some of the Theriaca dissolved; and upon going off of the
Symptoms, an old Woman came luckily in, who, with Assurance suitable to
those People (whose Ignorance and Poverty is their Safety and
Protection), took off the Dressings, promising to cure her in two Days’
time, altho’ she made it as many Weeks, yet had the Reputation of the
Cure; applying only Plantain Leaves bruis’d and mixed with Cobwebs,
dropping the Juice into her Eye, and giving some Spoonfuls of the same
inwardly, two or three times a day.’

So ends the wonderful affair. Whereupon the sage gives Mr. Turner the
following shot—strengthening it with italics—and passes calmly on:

‘_I must remark upon this History, that the Plantain, as a Cooler, was
much more likely to cure this Disorder than warmer Applications and
Medicines._’

How strange that narrative sounds to-day, and how grotesque, when one
reflects that it was a grave contribution to medical ‘science’ by an old
and reputable physician! Here was all this to-do—two weeks of it—over a
woman who had scorched her eye and her lips with candle grease. The poor
wench is as elaborately dosed, bled, embrocated, and otherwise harried
and bedevilled, as if there had been really something the matter with
her; and when a sensible old woman comes along at last, and treats the
trivial case in a sensible way, the educated ignoramus rails at her
ignorance, serenely unconscious of his own. It is pretty suggestive of
the former snail pace of medical progress that the spider retained his
terrors during three thousand years, and only lost them within the last
thirty or forty.

Observe what imagination can do. ‘This same young Woman’ used to be so
affected by the strong (imaginary) smell which emanated from the burning
spiders that ‘the Objects about her seem’d to turn round; she grew faint
also with cold Sweats, and sometimes a light Vomiting.’ There could have
been Beer in that cellar as well as Spiders.

Here are some more of the effects of imagination: ‘_Sennertus_ takes
Notice of the Signs of the Bite or Sting of this Insect to be a Stupor
or Numbness upon the Part, with a sense of Cold, Horror, or Swelling of
the Abdomen, Paleness of the Face, involuntary Tears, Trembling,
Contractions, a (****), Convulsions, cold Sweats; but these latter
chiefly when the Poison has been received inwardly;’ whereas the modern
physician holds that a few spiders taken inwardly, by a bird or a man,
will do neither party any harm.

The above ‘Signs’ are not restricted to spider bites—often they merely
indicate fright. I have seen a person with a hornet in his pantaloons
exhibit them all.

‘As to the Cure, not slighting the usual Alexipharmics taken internally,
the Place bitten must be immediately washed with Salt Water, or a Sponge
dipped in hot Vinegar, or fomented with a Decoction of Mallows,
Origanum, and Mother of Thyme; after which a Cataplasm must be laid on
of the Leaves of Bay, Rue, Leeks, and the Meal of Barley, boiled with
Vinegar, or of Garlick and Onions, contused with Goat’s Dung and fat
Figs. Mean time the Patient should eat Garlick and drink Wine freely.’

As for me, I should prefer the spider bite. Let us close this review
with a sample or two of the earthquakes which the old-time doctor used
to introduce into his patient when he could find room. Under this head
we have ‘Alexander’s Golden Antidote,’ which is good for—well, pretty
much everything. It is probably the old original first patent-medicine.
It is built as follows:

‘Take of Afarabocca, Henbane, Carpobalsamum, each two Drams and a half;
of Cloves, Opium, Myrrh, Cyperus, each two Drams; of Opobalsamum, Indian
Leaf, Cinnamon, Zedoary, Ginger, Coftus, Coral, Cassia, Euphorbium, Gum
Tragacanth, Frankincense, Styrax Calamita, Celtic, Nard, Spignel,
Hartwort, Mustard, Saxifrage, Dill, Anise, each one Dram; of Xylaloes,
Rheum, Ponticum, Alipta Moschata, Castor, Spikenard, Galangals,
Opoponax, Anacardium, Mastich, Brimstone, Peony, Eringo, Pulp of Dates,
red and white Hermodactyls, Roses, Thyme, Acorns, Pennyroyal, Gentian,
the Bark of the Root of Mandrake, Germander, Valerian, Bishops Weed,
Bay-Berries, long and white Pepper, Xylobalsamum, Carnabadium,
Macodonian, Parsley-seeds, Lovage, the Seeds of Rue, and Sinon, of each
a Dram and a half; of pure Gold, pure Silver, Pearls not perforated, the
Blatta Byzantina, the Bone of the Stag’s Heart, of each the Quantity of
fourteen Grains of Wheat; of Sapphire, Emerald, and Jasper Stones, each
one Dram; of Hasle-nut, two Drams; of Pellitory of Spain, Shavings of
Ivory, Calamus Odoratus, each the Quantity of twenty-nine Grains of
Wheat; of Honey or Sugar a sufficient Quantity.’

Serve with a shovel. No; one might expect such an injunction after such
formidable preparation; but it is not so. The dose recommended is ‘the
Quantity of an Hasle-nut.’ Only that; it is because there is so much
jewellery in it, no doubt.

‘_Aqua Limacum._ Take a great Peck of Garden-snails, and wash them in a
great deal of Beer, and make your Chimney very clean, and set a Bushel
of Charcoal on Fire; and when they are thoroughly kindled, make a Hole
in the Middle of the Fire, and put the Snails in, and scatter more Fire
amongst them, and let them roast till they make a Noise; then take them
out, and, with a Knife and coarse Cloth, pick and wipe away all the
green Froth: Then break them, Shells and all, in a Stone Mortar. Take
also a Quart of Earth-worms, and scour them with Salt, divers times
over. Then take two Handfuls of Angelica and lay them in the Bottom of
the Still; next lay two Handfuls of Celandine; next a Quart of
Rosemary-flowers; then two Handfuls of Bears-foot and Agrimony; then
Fenugreek; then Turmerick; of each one Ounce: Red Dock-root, Bark of
Barberry-trees, Wood-sorrel, Betony, of each two Handfuls.—Then lay the
Snails and Worms on the Top of the Herbs; and then two Handfuls of
Goose-dung, and two Handfuls of Sheep-dung. Then put in three Gallons of
Strong Ale, and place the pot where you mean to set Fire under it: Let
it stand all Night, or longer; in the Morning put in three Ounces of
Cloves well beaten, and a small Quantity of Saffron, dry’d to Powder;
then six Ounces of Shavings of Hartshorn, which must be uppermost. Fix
on the Head and Refrigeratory, and distil according to Art.’

There! The book does not say whether this is all one dose, or whether
you have a right to split it and take a second chance at it, in case you
live. Also, the book does not seem to specify what ailment it was for;
but it is of no consequence, for of course that would come out on the
inquest.

Upon looking further, I find that this formidable nostrum is ‘good for
raising Flatulencies in the Stomach’—meaning _from_ the stomach, no
doubt. So it would appear that when our progenitors chanced to swallow a
sigh, they emptied a sewer down their throats to expel it. It is like
dislodging skippers from cheese with artillery.

When you reflect that your own father had to take such medicines as the
above, and that you would be taking them to-day yourself but for the
introduction of homœopathy, which forced the old-school doctor to stir
around and learn something of a rational nature about his business, you
may honestly feel grateful that homœopathy survived the attempts of the
allopathists to destroy it, even though you may never employ any
physician but an allopathist while you live.


                               PRINTED BY
                SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
                                 LONDON

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





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