Alonzo Fitz and Other Stories

By

Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

www.freeclassicebooks.com

Contents:

ROGERS.. 2

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON.. 3

II. 16

III. 21

ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING.. 37

ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE.. 45

THE GRATEFUL POODLE.. 45

THE BENEVOLENT AUTHOR.. 48

SEQUEL.. 48

THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND.. 50

SEQUEL.. 50

PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH.. 54

THE CANVASSER'S TALE.. 80

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER.. 89

PARIS NOTES.. 97

LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY.. 102

II. 107

SPEECH ON THE BABIES.. 111

SPEECH ON THE WEATHER.. 115

CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE --. 120

ROGERS.. 125

ROGERS

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON

It was well along in the forenoon of a bitter winter's day. The town of

Eastport, in the state of Maine, lay buried under a deep snow that was

newly fallen. The customary bustle in the streets was wanting. One

could look long distances down them and see nothing but a dead-white

emptiness, with silence to match. Of course I do not mean that you could

see the silence--no, you could only hear it. The sidewalks were merely

long, deep ditches, with steep snow walls on either side. Here and there

you might hear the faint, far scrape of a wooden shovel, and if you

were quick enough you might catch a glimpse of a distant black figure

stooping and disappearing in one of those ditches, and reappearing the

next moment with a motion which you would know meant the heaving out of

a shovelful of snow. But you needed to be quick, for that black figure

would not linger, but would soon drop that shovel and scud for the

house, thrashing itself with its arms to warm them. Yes, it was too

venomously cold for snow-shovelers or anybody else to stay out long.

Presently the sky darkened; then the wind rose and began to blow in

fitful, vigorous gusts, which sent clouds of powdery snow aloft, and

straight ahead, and everywhere. Under the impulse of one of these gusts,

great white drifts banked themselves like graves across the streets; a

moment later another gust shifted them around the other way, driving a

fine spray of snow from their sharp crests, as the gale drives the spume

flakes from wave-crests at sea; a third gust swept that place as clean

as your hand, if it saw fit. This was fooling, this was play; but each

and all of the gusts dumped some snow into the sidewalk ditches, for

that was business.

Alonzo Fitz Clarence was sitting in his snug and elegant little parlor,

in a lovely blue silk dressing-gown, with cuffs and facings of crimson

satin, elaborately quilted. The remains of his breakfast were before

him, and the dainty and costly little table service added a harmonious

charm to the grace, beauty, and richness of the fixed appointments of

the room. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth.

A furious gust of wind shook the windows, and a great wave of snow

washed against them with a drenching sound, so to speak. The handsome

young bachelor murmured:

"That means, no going out to-day. Well, I am content. But what to do for

company? Mother is well enough, Aunt Susan is well enough; but these,

like the poor, I have with me always. On so grim a day as this,

one needs a new interest, a fresh element, to whet the dull edge of

captivity. That was very neatly said, but it doesn't mean anything. One

doesn't want the edge of captivity sharpened up, you know, but just the

reverse."

He glanced at his pretty French mantel-clock.

"That clock's wrong again. That clock hardly ever knows what time it

is; and when it does know, it lies about it--which amounts to the same

thing. Alfred!"

There was no answer.

"Alfred!... Good servant, but as uncertain as the clock."

Alonzo touched an electric bell button in the wall. He waited a moment,

then touched it again; waited a few moments more, and said:

"Battery out of order, no doubt. But now that I have started, I will

find out what time it is." He stepped to a speaking-tube in the wall,

blew its whistle, and called, "Mother!" and repeated it twice.

"Well, that's no use. Mother's battery is out of order, too. Can't raise

anybody down-stairs--that is plain."

He sat down at a rosewood desk, leaned his chin on the left-hand edge of

it and spoke, as if to the floor: "Aunt Susan!"

A low, pleasant voice answered, "Is that you, Alonzo?'

"Yes. I'm too lazy and comfortable to go downstairs; I am in extremity,

and I can't seem to scare up any help."

"Dear me, what is the matter?"

"Matter enough, I can tell you!"

"Oh, don't keep me in suspense, dear! What is it?"

"I want to know what time it is."

"You abominable boy, what a turn you did give me! Is that all?"

"All--on my honor. Calm yourself. Tell me the time, and receive my

blessing."

"Just five minutes after nine. No charge--keep your blessing."

"Thanks. It wouldn't have impoverished me, aunty, nor so enriched you

that you could live without other means."

He got up, murmuring, "Just five minutes after nine," and faced his

clock. "Ah," said he, "you are doing better than usual. You are only

thirty-four minutes wrong. Let me see... let me see.... Thirty-three

and twenty-one are fifty-four; four times fifty-four are two hundred and

thirty-six. One off, leaves two hundred and thirty-five. That's right."

He turned the hands of his clock forward till they marked twenty-five

minutes to one, and said, "Now see if you can't keep right for a

while--else I'll raffle you!"

He sat down at the desk again, and said, "Aunt Susan!"

"Yes, dear."

"Had breakfast?"

"Yes, indeed, an hour ago."

"Busy?"

"No--except sewing. Why?"

"Got any company?"

"No, but I expect some at half past nine."

"I wish I did. I'm lonesome. I want to talk to somebody."

"Very well, talk to me."

"But this is very private."

"Don't be afraid--talk right along, there's nobody here but me."

"I hardly know whether to venture or not, but--"

"But what? Oh, don't stop there! You know you can trust me, Alonzo--you

know, you can."

"I feel it, aunt, but this is very serious. It affects me deeply--me,

and all the family---even the whole community."

"Oh, Alonzo, tell me! I will never breathe a word of it. What is it?"

"Aunt, if I might dare--"

"Oh, please go on! I love you, and feel for you. Tell me all. Confide in

me. What is it?"

"The weather!"

"Plague take the weather! I don't see how you can have the heart to

serve me so, Lon."

"There, there, aunty dear, I'm sorry; I am, on my honor. I won't do it

again. Do you forgive me?"

"Yes, since you seem so sincere about it, though I know I oughtn't to.

You will fool me again as soon as I have forgotten this time."

"No, I won't, honor bright. But such weather, oh, such weather! You've

got to keep your spirits up artificially. It is snowy, and blowy, and

gusty, and bitter cold! How is the weather with you?"

"Warm and rainy and melancholy. The mourners go about the streets with

their umbrellas running streams from the end of every whalebone. There's

an elevated double pavement of umbrellas, stretching down the sides of

the streets as far as I can see. I've got a fire for cheerfulness, and

the windows open to keep cool. But it is vain, it is useless: nothing

comes in but the balmy breath of December, with its burden of mocking

odors from the flowers that possess the realm outside, and rejoice in

their lawless profusion whilst the spirit of man is low, and flaunt

their gaudy splendors in his face while his soul is clothed in sackcloth

and ashes and his heart breaketh."

Alonzo opened his lips to say, "You ought to print that, and get it

framed," but checked himself, for he heard his aunt speaking to some

one else. He went and stood at the window and looked out upon the wintry

prospect. The storm was driving the snow before it more furiously than

ever; window-shutters were slamming and banging; a forlorn dog, with

bowed head and tail withdrawn from service, was pressing his quaking

body against a windward wall for shelter and protection; a young girl

was plowing knee-deep through the drifts, with her face turned from the

blast, and the cape of her waterproof blowing straight rearward over her

head. Alonzo shuddered, and said with a sigh, "Better the slop, and the

sultry rain, and even the insolent flowers, than this!"

He turned from the window, moved a step, and stopped in a listening

attitude. The faint, sweet notes of a familiar song caught his ear. He

remained there, with his head unconsciously bent forward, drinking in

the melody, stirring neither hand nor foot, hardly breathing. There was

a blemish in the execution of the song, but to Alonzo it seemed an added

charm instead of a defect. This blemish consisted of a marked flatting

of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh notes of the refrain or

chorus of the piece. When the music ended, Alonzo drew a deep breath,

and said, "Ah, I never have heard 'In the Sweet By-and-by' sung like

that before!"

He stepped quickly to the desk, listened a moment, and said in a

guarded, confidential voice, "Aunty, who is this divine singer?"

"She is the company I was expecting. Stays with me a month or two. I

will introduce you. Miss--"

"For goodness' sake, wait a moment, Aunt Susan! You never stop to think

what you are about!"

He flew to his bedchamber, and returned in a moment perceptibly changed

in his outward appearance, and remarking, snappishly:

"Hang it, she would have introduced me to this angel in that sky-blue

dressing-gown with red-hot lapels! Women never think, when they get

a-going."

He hastened and stood by the desk, and said eagerly, "Now, Aunty, I am

ready," and fell to smiling and bowing with all the persuasiveness and

elegance that were in him.

"Very well. Miss Rosannah Ethelton, let me introduce to you my favorite

nephew, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence. There! You are both good people, and

I like you; so I am going to trust you together while I attend to a

few household affairs. Sit down, Rosannah; sit down, Alonzo. Good-by; I

sha'n't be gone long."

Alonzo had been bowing and smiling all the while, and motioning

imaginary young ladies to sit down in imaginary chairs, but now he took

a seat himself, mentally saying, "Oh, this is luck! Let the winds blow

now, and the snow drive, and the heavens frown! Little I care!"

While these young people chat themselves into an acquaintanceship, let

us take the liberty of inspecting the sweeter and fairer of the two. She

sat alone, at her graceful ease, in a richly furnished apartment which

was manifestly the private parlor of a refined and sensible lady,

if signs and symbols may go for anything. For instance, by a low,

comfortable chair stood a dainty, top-heavy workstand, whose summit was

a fancifully embroidered shallow basket, with varicolored crewels, and

other strings and odds and ends protruding from under the gaping lid and

hanging down in negligent profusion. On the floor lay bright shreds of

Turkey red, Prussian blue, and kindred fabrics, bits of ribbon, a spool

or two, a pair of scissors, and a roll or so of tinted silken stuffs.

On a luxurious sofa, upholstered with some sort of soft Indian goods

wrought in black and gold threads interwebbed with other threads not

so pronounced in color, lay a great square of coarse white stuff, upon

whose surface a rich bouquet of flowers was growing, under the deft

cultivation of the crochet-needle. The household cat was asleep on this

work of art. In a bay-window stood an easel with an unfinished picture

on it, and a palette and brushes on a chair beside it. There were books

everywhere: Robertson's Sermons, Tennyson, Moody and Sankey, Hawthorne,

Rab and His Friends, cook-books, prayer-books, pattern-books--and books

about all kinds of odious and exasperating pottery, of course. There was

a piano, with a deck-load of music, and more in a tender. There was

a great plenty of pictures on the walls, on the shelves of the

mantelpiece, and around generally; where coigns of vantage offered

were statuettes, and quaint and pretty gimcracks, and rare and costly

specimens of peculiarly devilish china. The bay-window gave upon a

garden that was ablaze with foreign and domestic flowers and flowering

shrubs.

But the sweet young girl was the daintiest thing these premises, within

or without, could offer for contemplation: delicately chiseled features,

of Grecian cast; her complexion the pure snow of a japonica that is

receiving a faint reflected enrichment from some scarlet neighbor of

the garden; great, soft blue eyes fringed with long, curving lashes; an

expression made up of the trustfulness of a child and the gentleness of

a fawn; a beautiful head crowned with its own prodigal gold; a lithe

and rounded figure, whose every attitude and movement was instinct with

native grace.

Her dress and adornment were marked by that exquisite harmony that can

come only of a fine natural taste perfected by culture. Her gown was of

a simple magenta tulle, cut bias, traversed by three rows of light-blue

flounces, with the selvage edges turned up with ashes-of-roses

chenille; overdress of dark bay tarlatan with scarlet satin lambrequins;

corn-colored polonaise, en panier, looped with mother-of-pearl buttons

and silver cord, and hauled aft and made fast by buff velvet lashings;

basque of lavender reps, picked out with valenciennes; low neck, short

sleeves; maroon velvet necktie edged with delicate pink silk; inside

handkerchief of some simple three-ply ingrain fabric of a soft saffron

tint; coral bracelets and locket-chain; coiffure of forget-me-nots and

lilies-of-the-valley massed around a noble calla.

This was all; yet even in this subdued attire she was divinely

beautiful. Then what must she have been when adorned for the festival or

the ball?

All this time she had been busily chatting with Alonzo, unconscious of

our inspection. The minutes still sped, and still she talked. But by and

by she happened to look up, and saw the clock. A crimson blush sent its

rich flood through her cheeks, and she exclaimed:

"There, good-by, Mr. Fitz Clarence; I must go now!"

She sprang from her chair with such haste that she hardly heard the

young man's answering good-by. She stood radiant, graceful, beautiful,

and gazed, wondering, upon the accusing clock. Presently her pouting

lips parted, and she said:

"Five minutes after eleven! Nearly two hours, and it did not seem twenty

minutes! Oh, dear, what will he think of me!"

At the self-same moment Alonzo was staring at his clock. And presently

he said:

"Twenty-five minutes to three! Nearly two hours, and I didn't believe

it was two minutes! Is it possible that this clock is humbugging again?

Miss Ethelton! Just one moment, please. Are you there yet?"

"Yes, but be quick; I'm going right away."

"Would you be so kind as to tell me what time it is?"

The girl blushed again, murmured to herself, "It's right down cruel

of him to ask me!" and then spoke up and answered with admirably

counterfeited unconcern, "Five minutes after eleven."

"Oh, thank you! You have to go, now, have you?"

"I'm sorry."

No reply.

"Miss Ethelton!"

"Well?"

"You--you're there yet, ain't you?"

"Yes; but please hurry. What did you want to say?"

"Well, I--well, nothing in particular. It's very lonesome here. It's

asking a great deal, I know, but would you mind talking with me again by

and by--that is, if it will not trouble you too much?"

"I don't know but I'll think about it. I'll try."

"Oh, thanks! Miss Ethelton!... Ah, me, she's gone, and here are the

black clouds and the whirling snow and the raging winds come again! But

she said good-by. She didn't say good morning, she said good-by! ... The

clock was right, after all. What a lightning-winged two hours it was!"

He sat down, and gazed dreamily into his fire for a while, then heaved a

sigh and said:

"How wonderful it is! Two little hours ago I was a free man, and now my

heart's in San Francisco!"

About that time Rosannah Ethelton, propped in the window-seat of her

bedchamber, book in hand, was gazing vacantly out over the rainy seas

that washed the Golden Gate, and whispering to herself, "How different

he is from poor Burley, with his empty head and his single little antic

talent of mimicry!"

II

Four weeks later Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley was entertaining a gay

luncheon company, in a sumptuous drawing-room on Telegraph Hill, with

some capital imitations of the voices and gestures of certain popular

actors and San Franciscan literary people and Bonanza grandees. He was

elegantly upholstered, and was a handsome fellow, barring a trifling

cast in his eye. He seemed very jovial, but nevertheless he kept his eye

on the door with an expectant and uneasy watchfulness. By and by a nobby

lackey appeared, and delivered a message to the mistress, who nodded her

head understandingly. That seemed to settle the thing for Mr. Burley;

his vivacity decreased little by little, and a dejected look began to

creep into one of his eyes and a sinister one into the other.

The rest of the company departed in due time, leaving him with the

mistress, to whom he said:

"There is no longer any question about it. She avoids me. She

continually excuses herself. If I could see her, if I could speak to her

only a moment--but this suspense--"

"Perhaps her seeming avoidance is mere accident, Mr. Burley. Go to

the small drawing-room up-stairs and amuse yourself a moment. I will

despatch a household order that is on my mind, and then I will go to her

room. Without doubt she will be persuaded to see you."

Mr. Burley went up-stairs, intending to go to the small drawing-room,

but as he was passing "Aunt Susan's" private parlor, the door of which

stood slightly ajar, he heard a joyous laugh which he recognized; so

without knock or announcement he stepped confidently in. But before he

could make his presence known he heard words that harrowed up his soul

and chilled his young blood, he heard a voice say:

"Darling, it has come!"

Then he heard Rosannah Ethelton, whose back was toward him, say:

"So has yours, dearest!"

He saw her bowed form bend lower; he heard her kiss something--not

merely once, but again and again! His soul raged within him. The

heartbreaking conversation went on:

"Rosannah, I knew you must be beautiful, but this is dazzling, this is

blinding, this is intoxicating!"

"Alonzo, it is such happiness to hear you say it. I know it is not true,

but I am so grateful to have you think it is, nevertheless! I knew you

must have a noble face, but the grace and majesty of the reality beggar

the poor creation of my fancy."

Burley heard that rattling shower of kisses again.

"Thank you, my Rosannah! The photograph flatters me, but you must not

allow yourself to think of that. Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Alonzo."

"I am so happy, Rosannah."

"Oh, Alonzo, none that have gone before me knew what love was, none that

come after me will ever know what happiness is. I float in a gorgeous

cloud land, a boundless firmament of enchanted and bewildering ecstasy!"

"Oh, my Rosannah!--for you are mine, are you not?"

"Wholly, oh, wholly yours, Alonzo, now and forever! All the day long,

and all through my nightly dreams, one song sings itself, and its sweet

burden is, 'Alonzo Fitz Clarence, Alonzo Fitz Clarence, Eastport, state

of Maine!'"

"Curse him, I've got his address, anyway!" roared Burley, inwardly, and

rushed from the place.

Just behind the unconscious Alonzo stood his mother, a picture of

astonishment. She was so muffled from head to heel in furs that nothing

of herself was visible but her eyes and nose. She was a good allegory of

winter, for she was powdered all over with snow.

Behind the unconscious Rosannah stood "Aunt Susan," another picture of

astonishment. She was a good allegory of summer, for she was lightly

clad, and was vigorously cooling the perspiration on her face with a

fan.

Both of these women had tears of joy in their eyes.

"Soho!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitz Clarence, "this explains why nobody has been

able to drag you out of your room for six weeks, Alonzo!"

"So ho!" exclaimed Aunt Susan, "this explains why you have been a hermit

for the past six weeks, Rosannah!"

The young couple were on their feet in an instant, abashed, and standing

like detected dealers in stolen goods awaiting judge Lynch's doom.

"Bless you, my son! I am happy in your happiness. Come to your mother's

arms, Alonzo!"

"Bless you, Rosannah, for my dear nephew's sake! Come to my arms!"

Then was there a mingling of hearts and of tears of rejoicing on

Telegraph Hill and in Eastport Square.

Servants were called by the elders, in both places. Unto one was given

the order, "Pile this fire high, with hickory wood, and bring me a

roasting-hot lemonade."

Unto the other was given the order, "Put out this fire, and bring me two

palm-leaf fans and a pitcher of ice-water."

Then the young people were dismissed, and the elders sat down to talk

the sweet surprise over and make the wedding plans.

Some minutes before this Mr. Burley rushed from the mansion on Telegraph

Hill without meeting or taking formal leave of anybody. He hissed

through his teeth, in unconscious imitation of a popular favorite in

melodrama, "Him shall she never wed! I have sworn it! Ere great Nature

shall have doffed her winter's ermine to don the emerald gauds of

spring, she shall be mine!"

III

Two weeks later. Every few hours, during same three or four days, a very

prim and devout-looking Episcopal clergyman, with a cast in his eye, had

visited Alonzo. According to his card, he was the Rev. Melton Hargrave,

of Cincinnati. He said he had retired from the ministry on account of

his health. If he had said on account of ill-health, he would probably

have erred, to judge by his wholesome looks and firm build. He was the

inventor of an improvement in telephones, and hoped to make his bread

by selling the privilege of using it. "At present," he continued, "a man

may go and tap a telegraph wire which is conveying a song or a concert

from one state to another, and he can attach his private telephone and

steal a hearing of that music as it passes along. My invention will stop

all that."

"Well," answered Alonzo, "if the owner of the music could not miss what

was stolen, why should he care?"

"He shouldn't care," said the Reverend.

"Well?" said Alonzo, inquiringly.

"Suppose," replied the Reverend, "suppose that, instead of music that

was passing along and being stolen, the burden of the wire was loving

endearments of the most private and sacred nature?"

Alonzo shuddered from head to heel. "Sir, it is a priceless invention,"

said he; "I must have it at any cost."

But the invention was delayed somewhere on the road from Cincinnati,

most unaccountably. The impatient Alonzo could hardly wait. The thought

of Rosannah's sweet words being shared with him by some ribald thief was

galling to him. The Reverend came frequently and lamented the delay, and

told of measures he had taken to hurry things up. This was some little

comfort to Alonzo.

One forenoon the Reverend ascended the stairs and knocked at Alonzo's

door. There was no response. He entered, glanced eagerly around, closed

the door softly, then ran to the telephone. The exquisitely soft and

remote strains of the "Sweet By-and-by" came floating through the

instrument. The singer was flatting, as usual, the five notes that

follow the first two in the chorus, when the Reverend interrupted her

with this word, in a voice which was an exact imitation of Alonzo's,

with just the faintest flavor of impatience added:

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Alonzo?"

"Please don't sing that any more this week--try something modern."

The agile step that goes with a happy heart was heard on the stairs,

and the Reverend, smiling diabolically, sought sudden refuge behind the

heavy folds of the velvet window-curtains. Alonzo entered and flew to

the telephone. Said he:

"Rosannah, dear, shall we sing something together?"

"Something modern?" asked she, with sarcastic bitterness.

"Yes, if you prefer."

"Sing it yourself, if you like!"

This snappishness amazed and wounded the young man. He said:

"Rosannah, that was not like you."

"I suppose it becomes me as much as your very polite speech became you,

Mr. Fitz Clarence."

"Mister Fitz Clarence! Rosannah, there was nothing impolite about my

speech."

"Oh, indeed! Of course, then, I misunderstood you, and I most humbly

beg your pardon, ha-ha-ha! No doubt you said, 'Don't sing it any more

to-day.'"

"Sing what any more to-day?"

"The song you mentioned, of course, How very obtuse we are, all of a

sudden!"

"I never mentioned any song."

"Oh, you didn't?"

"No, I didn't!"

"I am compelled to remark that you did."

"And I am obliged to reiterate that I didn't."

"A second rudeness! That is sufficient, sir. I will never forgive you.

All is over between us."

Then came a muffled sound of crying. Alonzo hastened to say:

"Oh, Rosannah, unsay those words! There is some dreadful mystery here,

some hideous mistake. I am utterly earnest and sincere when I say I

never said anything about any song. I would not hurt you for the whole

world.... Rosannah, dear speak to me, won't you?"

There was a pause; then Alonzo heard the girl's sobbings retreating,

and knew she had gone from the telephone. He rose with a heavy sigh, and

hastened from the room, saying to himself, "I will ransack the charity

missions and the haunts of the poor for my mother. She will persuade her

that I never meant to wound her."

A minute later the Reverend was crouching over the telephone like a cat

that knoweth the ways of the prey. He had not very many minutes to wait.

A soft, repentant voice, tremulous with tears, said:

"Alonzo, dear, I have been wrong. You could not have said so cruel a

thing. It must have been some one who imitated your voice in malice or

in jest."

The Reverend coldly answered, in Alonzo's tones:

"You have said all was over between us. So let it be. I spurn your

proffered repentance, and despise it!"

Then he departed, radiant with fiendish triumph, to return no more with

his imaginary telephonic invention forever.

Four hours afterward Alonzo arrived with his mother from her favorite

haunts of poverty and vice. They summoned the San Francisco household;

but there was no reply. They waited, and continued to wait, upon the

voiceless telephone.

At length, when it was sunset in San Francisco, and three hours and

a half after dark in Eastport, an answer to the oft-repeated cry of

"Rosannah!"

But, alas, it was Aunt Susan's voice that spake. She said:

"I have been out all day; just got in. I will go and find her."

The watchers waited two minutes--five minutes--ten minutes. Then came

these fatal words, in a frightened tone:

"She is gone, and her baggage with her. To visit another friend, she

told the servants. But I found this note on the table in her room.

Listen: 'I am gone; seek not to trace me out; my heart is broken; you

will never see me more. Tell him I shall always think of him when I sing

my poor "Sweet By-and-by," but never of the unkind words he said about

it.' That is her note. Alonzo, Alonzo, what does it mean? What has

happened?"

But Alonzo sat white and cold as the dead. His mother threw back

the velvet curtains and opened a window. The cold air refreshed the

sufferer, and he told his aunt his dismal story. Meantime his mother

was inspecting a card which had disclosed itself upon the floor when

she cast the curtains back. It read, "Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, San

Francisco."

"The miscreant!" shouted Alonzo, and rushed forth to seek the false

Reverend and destroy him; for the card explained everything, since in

the course of the lovers' mutual confessions they had told each other

all about all the sweethearts they had ever had, and thrown no end of

mud at their failings and foibles for lovers always do that. It has a

fascination that ranks next after billing and cooing.

IV

During the next two months many things happened. It had early transpired

that Rosannah, poor suffering orphan, had neither returned to her

grandmother in Portland, Oregon, nor sent any word to her save a

duplicate of the woeful note she had left in the mansion on Telegraph

Hill. Whosoever was sheltering her--if she was still alive--had been

persuaded not to betray her whereabouts, without doubt; for all efforts

to find trace of her had failed.

Did Alonzo give her up? Not he. He said to himself, "She will sing

that sweet song when she is sad; I shall find her." So he took his

carpet-sack and a portable telephone, and shook the snow of his native

city from his arctics, and went forth into the world. He wandered far

and wide and in many states. Time and again, strangers were astounded to

see a wasted, pale, and woe-worn man laboriously climb a telegraph-pole

in wintry and lonely places, perch sadly there an hour, with his ear at

a little box, then come sighing down, and wander wearily away. Sometimes

they shot at him, as peasants do at aeronauts, thinking him mad and

dangerous. Thus his clothes were much shredded by bullets and his person

grievously lacerated. But he bore it all patiently.

In the beginning of his pilgrimage he used often to say, "Ah, if I could

but hear the 'Sweet By-and-by'!" But toward the end of it he used to

shed tears of anguish and say, "Ah, if I could but hear something else!"

Thus a month and three weeks drifted by, and at last some humane people

seized him and confined him in a private mad-house in New York. He made

no moan, for his strength was all gone, and with it all heart and all

hope. The superintendent, in pity, gave up his own comfortable parlor

and bedchamber to him and nursed him with affectionate devotion.

At the end of a week the patient was able to leave his bed for the first

time. He was lying, comfortably pillowed, on a sofa, listening to the

plaintive Miserere of the bleak March winds and the muffled sound of

tramping feet in the street below for it was about six in the evening,

and New York was going home from work. He had a bright fire and the

added cheer of a couple of student-lamps. So it was warm and snug

within, though bleak and raw without; it was light and bright within,

though outside it was as dark and dreary as if the world had been lit

with Hartford gas. Alonzo smiled feebly to think how his loving vagaries

had made him a maniac in the eyes of the world, and was proceeding to

pursue his line of thought further, when a faint, sweet strain, the very

ghost of sound, so remote and attenuated it seemed, struck upon his ear.

His pulses stood still; he listened with parted lips and bated

breath. The song flowed on--he waiting, listening, rising slowly and

unconsciously from his recumbent position. At last he exclaimed:

"It is! it is she! Oh, the divine hated notes!"

He dragged himself eagerly to the corner whence the sounds proceeded,

tore aside a curtain, and discovered a telephone. He bent over, and as

the last note died away he burst forthwith the exclamation:

"Oh, thank Heaven, found at last! Speak to me, Rosannah, dearest! The

cruel mystery has been unraveled; it was the villain Burley who mimicked

my voice and wounded you with insolent speech!"

There was a breathless pause, a waiting age to Alonzo; then a faint

sound came, framing itself into language:

"Oh, say those precious words again, Alonzo!"

"They are the truth, the veritable truth, my Rosannah, and you shall

have the proof, ample and abundant proof!"

"Oh; Alonzo, stay by me! Leave me not for a moment! Let me feel that you

are near me! Tell me we shall never be parted more! Oh, this happy hour,

this blessed hour, this memorable hour!"

"We will make record of it, my Rosannah; every year, as this dear hour

chimes from the clock, we will celebrate it with thanksgivings, all the

years of our life."

"We will, we will, Alonzo!"

"Four minutes after six, in the evening, my Rosannah, shall

henceforth--"

"Twenty-three minutes after twelve, afternoon shall--"

"Why; Rosannah, darling, where are you?"

"In Honolulu, Sandwich Islands. And where are you? Stay by me; do not

leave me for a moment. I cannot bear it. Are you at home?"

"No, dear, I am in New York--a patient in the doctor's hands."

An agonizing shriek came buzzing to Alonzo's ear, like the sharp buzzing

of a hurt gnat; it lost power in traveling five thousand miles. Alonzo

hastened to say:

"Calm yourself, my child. It is nothing. Already I am getting well under

the sweet healing of your presence. Rosannah?"

"Yes, Alonzo? Oh, how you terrified me! Say on."

"Name the happy day, Rosannah!"

There was a little pause. Then a diffident small voice replied, "I

blush--but it is with pleasure, it is with happiness. Would--would you

like to have it soon?"

"This very night, Rosannah! Oh, let us risk no more delays. Let it be

now!--this very night, this very moment!"

"Oh, you impatient creature! I have nobody here but my good old uncle,

a missionary for a generation, and now retired from service--nobody but

him and his wife. I would so dearly like it if your mother and your Aunt

Susan--"

"Our mother and our Aunt Susan, my Rosannah."

"Yes, our mother and our Aunt Susan--I am content to word it so if it

pleases you; I would so like to have them present."

"So would I. Suppose you telegraph Aunt Susan. How long would it take

her to come?"

"The steamer leaves San Francisco day after tomorrow. The passage is

eight days. She would be here the 31st of March."

"Then name the 1st of April; do, Rosannah, dear."

"Mercy, it would make us April fools, Alonzo!"

"So we be the happiest ones that that day's suit looks down upon in the

whole broad expanse of the globe, why need we care? Call it the 1st of

April, dear."

"Then the 1st of April at shall be, with all my heart!"

"Oh, happiness! Name the hour, too, Rosannah."

"I like the morning, it is so blithe. Will eight in the morning do,

Alonzo?"

"The loveliest hour in the day--since it will make you mine."

There was a feeble but frantic sound for some little time, as if

wool-lipped, disembodied spirits were exchanging kisses; then Rosannah

said, "Excuse me just a moment, dear; I have an appointment, and am

called to meet it."

The young girl sought a large parlor and took her place at a window

which looked out upon a beautiful scene. To the left one could view the

charming Nuuana Valley, fringed with its ruddy flush of tropical flowers

and its plumed and graceful cocoa palms; its rising foothills clothed

in the shining green of lemon, citron, and orange groves; its storied

precipice beyond, where the first Kamehameha drove his defeated foes

over to their destruction, a spot that had forgotten its grim history,

no doubt, for now it was smiling, as almost always at noonday, under the

glowing arches of a succession of rainbows. In front of the window one

could see the quaint town, and here and there a picturesque group of

dusky natives, enjoying the blistering weather; and far to the right lay

the restless ocean, tossing its white mane in the sunshine.

Rosannah stood there, in her filmy white raiment, fanning her flushed

and heated face, waiting. A Kanaka boy, clothed in a damaged blue

necktie and part of a silk hat, thrust his head in at the door, and

announced, "'Frisco haole!"

"Show him in," said the girl, straightening herself up and assuming a

meaning dignity. Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley entered, clad from head to

heel in dazzling snow--that is to say, in the lightest and whitest of

Irish linen. He moved eagerly forward, but the girl made a gesture and

gave him a look which checked him suddenly. She said, coldly, "I am

here, as I promised. I believed your assertions, I yielded to your

importune lies, and said I would name the day. I name the 1st of

April--eight in the morning. NOW GO!"

"Oh, my dearest, if the gratitude of a lifetime--"

"Not a word. Spare me all sight of you, all communication with you,

until that hour. No--no supplications; I will have it so."

When he was gone, she sank exhausted in a chair, for the long siege of

troubles she had undergone had wasted her strength. Presently she

said, "What a narrow escape! If the hour appointed had been an hour

earlier--Oh, horror, what an escape I have made! And to think I had come

to imagine I was loving this beguiling, this truthless, this treacherous

monster! Oh, he shall repent his villainy!"

Let us now draw this history to a close, for little more needs to be

told. On the 2d of the ensuing April, the Honolulu Advertiser contained

this notice:

MARRIED.--In this city, by telephone, yesterday morning,--at eight

o'clock, by Rev. Nathan Hays, assisted by Rev. Nathaniel Davis, of

New York, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, U. S., and

Miss Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon, U. S.  Mrs. Susan

Howland, of San Francisco, a friend of the bride, was present, she

being the guest of the Rev. Mr. Hays and wife, uncle and aunt of the

bride.  Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, of San Francisco, was also

present but did not remain till the conclusion of the marriage

service.  Captain Hawthorne's beautiful yacht, tastefully decorated,

was in waiting, and the happy bride and her friends immediately

departed on a bridal trip to Lahaina and Haleakala.

The New York papers of the same date contained this notice:

MARRIED.--In this city, yesterday, by telephone, at half-past two in

the morning, by Rev.  Nathaniel Davis, assisted by Rev. Nathan Hays,

of Honolulu, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, and Miss

Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon.  The parents and several

friends of the bridegroom were present, and enjoyed a sumptuous

breakfast and much festivity until nearly sunrise, and then departed

on a bridal trip to the Aquarium, the bridegroom's state of health

not admitting of a more extended journey.

Toward the close of that memorable day Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Fitz Clarence

were buried in sweet converse concerning the pleasures of their several

bridal tours, when suddenly the young wife exclaimed: "Oh, Lonny, I

forgot! I did what I said I would."

"Did you, dear?"

"Indeed, I did. I made him the April fool! And I told him so, too!

Ah, it was a charming surprise! There he stood, sweltering in a black

dress-suit, with the mercury leaking out of the top of the thermometer,

waiting to be married. You should have seen the look he gave when I

whispered it in his ear. Ah, his wickedness cost me many a heartache

and many a tear, but the score was all squared up, then. So the vengeful

feeling went right out of my heart, and I begged him to stay, and said

I forgave him everything. But he wouldn't. He said he would live to be

avenged; said he would make our lives a curse to us. But he can't, can

he, dear?"

"Never in this world, my Rosannah!"

Aunt Susan, the Oregonian grandmother, and the young couple and their

Eastport parents, are all happy at this writing, and likely to remain

so. Aunt Susan brought the bride from the islands, accompanied her

across our continent, and had the happiness of witnessing the rapturous

meeting between an adoring husband and wife who had never seen each

other until that moment.

A word about the wretched Burley, whose wicked machinations came so

near wrecking the hearts and lives of our poor young friends, will be

sufficient. In a murderous attempt to seize a crippled and helpless

artisan who he fancied had done him some small offense, he fell into a

caldron of boiling oil and expired before he could be extinguished.

ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING

ESSAY, FOR DISCUSSION, READ AT A MEETING OF THE HISTORICAL AND

ANTIQUARIAN CLUB OF HARTFORD, AND OFFERED FOR THE THIRTY-DOLLAR PRIZE.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.--[Did not take the prize]

Observe, I do not mean to suggest that the custom of lying has suffered

any decay or interruption--no, for the Lie, as a Virtue, a Principle, is

eternal; the Lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need,

the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest friend, is

immortal, and cannot perish from the earth while this Club remains. My

complaint simply concerns the decay of the art of lying. No high-minded

man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the lumbering and

slovenly lying of the present day without grieving to see a noble art so

prostituted. In this veteran presence I naturally enter upon this scheme

with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying to teach nursery matters

to the mothers in Israel. It would not become me to criticize you,

gentlemen, who are nearly all my elders--and my superiors, in this

thing--and so, if I should here and there seem to do it, I trust it will

in most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than of fault-finding;

indeed, if this finest of the fine arts had everywhere received the

attention, encouragement, and conscientious practice and development

which this Club has devoted to it I should not need to utter this lament

or shed a single tear. I do not say this to flatter: I say it in a

spirit of just and appreciative recognition.

[It had been my intention, at this point, to mention names and give

illustrative specimens, but indications observable about me admonished

me to beware of particulars and confine myself to generalities.]

No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of

our circumstances--the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without

saying. No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and

diligent cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one

ought to be taught in the public schools--at the fireside--even in the

newspapers. What chance has the ignorant, uncultivated liar against the

educated expert? What chance have I against Mr. Per-- against a lawyer?

Judicious lying is what the world needs. I sometimes think it were

even better and safer not to lie at all than to lie injudiciously. An

awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the truth.

Now let us see what the philosophers say. Note that venerable

proverb: Children and fools always speak the truth. The deduction is

plain--adults and wise persons never speak it. Parkman, the historian,

says, "The principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity."

In another place in the same chapter he says, "The saying is old

that truth should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick

conscience worries into habitual violation of the maxim are imbeciles

and nuisances." It is strong language, but true. None of us could live

with an habitual truth-teller; but, thank goodness, none of us has to.

An habitual truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does not

exist; he never has existed. Of course there are people who think they

never lie, but it is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very

things that shame our so-called civilization. Everybody lies--every day;

every hour; awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning;

if he keeps his tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his

attitude, will convey deception--and purposely. Even in sermons--but

that is a platitude.

In a far country where I once lived the ladies used to go around paying

calls, under the humane and kindly pretense of wanting to see each

other; and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad

voice, saying, "We made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them

out"--not meaning that they found out anything against the fourteen--no,

that was only a colloquial phrase to signify that they were not at

home--and their manner of saying it--expressed their lively satisfaction

in that fact. Now, their pretense of wanting to see the fourteen--and

the other two whom they had been less lucky with--was that commonest and

mildest form of lying which is sufficiently described as a deflection

from the truth. Is it justifiable? Most certainly. It is beautiful,

it is noble; for its object is, not to reap profit, but to convey a

pleasure to the sixteen. The iron-souled truth-monger would plainly

manifest, or even utter the fact, that he didn't want to see those

people--and he would be an ass, and inflict a totally unnecessary pain.

And next, those ladies in that far country--but never mind, they had a

thousand pleasant ways of lying, that grew out of gentle impulses, and

were a credit to their intelligence and an honor to their hearts. Let

the particulars go.

The men in that far country were liars; every one. Their mere howdy-do

was a lie, because they didn't care how you did, except they were

undertakers. To the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made

no conscientious diagnosis of your case, but answered at random, and

usually missed it considerably. You lied to the undertaker, and said

your health was failing--a wholly commendable lie, since it cost you

nothing and pleased the other man. If a stranger called and interrupted

you, you said with your hearty tongue, "I'm glad to see you," and said

with your heartier soul, "I wish you were with the cannibals and it was

dinner-time." When he went, you said regretfully, "Must you go?" and

followed it with a "Call again"; but you did no harm, for you did not

deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have made

you both unhappy.

I think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and

should be cultivated. The highest perfection of politeness is only a

beautiful edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and

gilded forms of charitable and unselfish lying.

What I bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth. Let us do

what we can to eradicate it. An injurious truth has no merit over an

injurious lie. Neither should ever be uttered. The man who speaks an

injurious truth, lest his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should

reflect that that sort of a soul is not strictly worth saving. The man

who tells a lie to help a poor devil out of trouble is one of whom the

angels doubtless say, "Lo, here is an heroic soul who casts his own

welfare into jeopardy to succor his neighbor's; let us exalt this

magnanimous liar."

An injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the

same degree, is an injurious truth--a fact which is recognized by the

law of libel.

Among other common lies, we have the silent lie--the deception which one

conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth. Many obstinate

truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if they speak

no lie, they lie not at all. In that far country where I once lived,

there was a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always high and

pure, and whose character answered to them. One day I was there at

dinner, and remarked, in a general way, that we are all liars. She was

amazed, and said, "Not all!" It was before "Pinafore's" time so I did

not make the response which would naturally follow in our day, but

frankly said, "Yes, all--we are all liars; there are no exceptions." She

looked almost offended, and said, "Why, do you include me?" "Certainly,"

I said, "I think you even rank as an expert." She said, "'Sh!--'sh! the

children!"

So the subject was changed in deference to the children's presence, and

we went on talking about other things. But as soon as the young people

were out of the way, the lady came warmly back to the matter and said,

"I have made it the rule of my life to never tell a lie; and I have

never departed from it in a single instance." I said, "I don't mean the

least harm or disrespect, but really you have been lying like smoke

ever since I've been sitting here. It has caused me a good deal of pain,

because I am not used to it." She required of me an instance--just a

single instance. So I said:--

"Well, here is the unfilled duplicate of the blank which the Oakland

hospital people sent to you by the hand of the sick-nurse when she came

here to nurse your little nephew through his dangerous illness. This

blank asks all manner of questions as to the conduct of that sick-nurse:

'Did she ever sleep on her watch? Did she ever forget to give the

medicine?' and so forth and so on. You are warned to be very careful and

explicit in your answers, for the welfare of the service requires that

the nurses be promptly fined or otherwise punished for derelictions.

You told me you were perfectly delighted with that nurse--that she had

a thousand perfections and only one fault: you found you never could

depend on her wrapping Johnny up half sufficiently while he waited in

a chilly chair for her to rearrange the warm bed. You filled up the

duplicate of this paper, and sent it back to the hospital by the hand of

the nurse. How did you answer this question--'Was the nurse at any

time guilty of a negligence which was likely to result in the patient's

taking cold?' Come--everything is decided by a bet here in California:

ten dollars to ten cents you lied when you answered that question." She

said, "I didn't; I left it blank!" "Just so--you have told a silent lie;

you have left it to be inferred that you had no fault to find in that

matter." She said, "Oh, was that a lie? And how could I mention her one

single fault, and she so good?--it would have been cruel." I said, "One

ought always to lie when one can do good by it; your impulse was right,

but, your judgment was crude; this comes of unintelligent practice. Now

observe the result of this inexpert deflection of yours. You know

Mr. Jones's Willie is lying very low with scarlet fever; well, your

recommendation was so enthusiastic that that girl is there nursing him,

and the worn-out family have all been trustingly sound asleep for the

last fourteen hours, leaving their darling with full confidence in

those fatal hands, because you, like young George Washington, have a

reputa--However, if you are not going to have anything to do, I will

come around to-morrow and we'll attend the funeral together, for, of

course, you'll naturally feel a peculiar interest in Willie's case--as

personal a one, in fact, as the undertaker."

But that was all lost. Before I was half-way through she was in a

carriage and making thirty miles an hour toward the Jones mansion to

save what was left of Willie and tell all she knew about the deadly

nurse. All of which was unnecessary, as Willie wasn't sick; I had been

lying myself. But that same day, all the same, she sent a line to the

hospital which filled up the neglected blank, and stated the facts, too,

in the squarest possible manner.

Now, you see, this lady's fault was not in lying, but only in lying

injudiciously. She should have told the truth there, and made it up to

the nurse with a fraudulent compliment further along in the paper. She

could have said, "In one respect the sick-nurse is perfection--when she

is on watch, she never snores." Almost any little pleasant lie would

have taken the sting out of that troublesome but necessary expression of

the truth.

Lying is universal--we all do it; we all must do it. Therefore, the

wise thing is for us diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully,

judiciously; to lie with a good object, and not an evil one; to lie

for others' advantage, and not our own; to lie healingly, charitably,

humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully, maliciously; to lie gracefully

and graciously, not awkwardly and clumsily; to lie firmly, frankly,

squarely, with head erect, not haltingly, tortuously, with pusillanimous

mien, as being ashamed of our high calling. Then shall we be rid of

the rank and pestilent truth that is rotting the land; then shall we be

great and good and beautiful, and worthy dwellers in a world where

even benign Nature habitually lies, except when she promises execrable

weather. Then--but I am but a new and feeble student in this gracious

art; I can not instruct this Club.

Joking aside, I think there is much need of wise examination into what

sorts of lies are best and wholesomest to be indulged, seeing we must

all lie and do all lie, and what sorts it may be best to avoid--and this

is a thing which I feel I can confidently put into the hands of this

experienced Club--a ripe body, who may be termed, in this regard, and

without undue flattery, Old Masters.

ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE

All my life, from boyhood up, I have had the habit of reading a certain

set of anecdotes, written in the quaint vein of The World's ingenious

Fabulist, for the lesson they taught me and the pleasure they gave me.

They lay always convenient to my hand, and whenever I thought meanly of

my kind I turned to them, and they banished that sentiment; whenever

I felt myself to be selfish, sordid, and ignoble I turned to them, and

they told me what to do to win back my self-respect. Many times I wished

that the charming anecdotes had not stopped with their happy climaxes,

but had continued the pleasing history of the several benefactors and

beneficiaries. This wish rose in my breast so persistently that at last

I determined to satisfy it by seeking out the sequels of those anecdotes

myself. So I set about it, and after great labor and tedious research

accomplished my task. I will lay the result before you, giving you each

anecdote in its turn, and following it with its sequel as I gathered it

through my investigations.

THE GRATEFUL POODLE

One day a benevolent physician (who had read the books) having found a

stray poodle suffering from a broken leg, conveyed the poor creature

to his home, and after setting and bandaging the injured limb gave the

little outcast its liberty again, and thought no more about the matter.

But how great was his surprise, upon opening his door one morning, some

days later, to find the grateful poodle patiently waiting there, and in

its company another stray dog, one of whose legs, by some accident, had

been broken. The kind physician at once relieved the distressed animal,

nor did he forget to admire the inscrutable goodness and mercy of God,

who had been willing to use so humble an instrument as the poor outcast

poodle for the inculcating of, etc., etc., etc.

SEQUEL

The next morning the benevolent physician found the two dogs,

beaming with gratitude, waiting at his door, and with them two other

dogs-cripples. The cripples were speedily healed, and the four went

their way, leaving the benevolent physician more overcome by pious

wonder than ever. The day passed, the morning came. There at the door

sat now the four reconstructed dogs, and with them four others requiring

reconstruction. This day also passed, and another morning came; and now

sixteen dogs, eight of them newly crippled, occupied the sidewalk, and

the people were going around. By noon the broken legs were all set, but

the pious wonder in the good physician's breast was beginning to get

mixed with involuntary profanity. The sun rose once more, and exhibited

thirty-two dogs, sixteen of them with broken legs, occupying the

sidewalk and half of the street; the human spectators took up the rest

of the room. The cries of the wounded, the songs of the healed brutes,

and the comments of the onlooking citizens made great and inspiring

cheer, but traffic was interrupted in that street. The good physician

hired a couple of assistant surgeons and got through his benevolent

work before dark, first taking the precaution to cancel his

church membership, so that he might express himself with the latitude

which the case required.

But some things have their limits. When once more the morning dawned,

and the good physician looked out upon a massed and far-reaching

multitude of clamorous and beseeching dogs, he said, "I might as well

acknowledge it, I have been fooled by the books; they only tell the

pretty part of the story, and then stop. Fetch me the shotgun; this

thing has gone along far enough."

He issued forth with his weapon, and chanced to step upon the tail of

the original poodle, who promptly bit him in the leg. Now the great and

good work which this poodle had been engaged in had engendered in him

such a mighty and augmenting enthusiasm as to turn his weak head at last

and drive him mad. A month later, when the benevolent physician lay in

the death-throes of hydrophobia, he called his weeping friends about

him, and said:--

"Beware of the books. They tell but half of the story. Whenever a poor

wretch asks you for help, and you feel a doubt as to what result may

flow from your benevolence, give yourself the benefit of the doubt and

kill the applicant."

And so saying he turned his face to the wall and gave up the ghost.

THE BENEVOLENT AUTHOR

A poor and young literary beginner had tried in vain to get his

manuscripts accepted. At last, when the horrors of starvation were

staring him in the face, he laid his sad case before a celebrated

author, beseeching his counsel and assistance. This generous man

immediately put aside his own matters and proceeded to peruse one of

the despised manuscripts. Having completed his kindly task, he shook the

poor young man cordially by the hand, saying, "I perceive merit in

this; come again to me on Monday." At the time specified, the celebrated

author, with a sweet smile, but saying nothing, spread open a

magazine which was damp from the press. What was the poor young man's

astonishment to discover upon the printed page his own article. "How

can I ever," said he, falling upon his knees and bursting into tears,

"testify my gratitude for this noble conduct!"

The celebrated author was the renowned Snodgrass; the poor young

beginner thus rescued from obscurity and starvation was the afterward

equally renowned Snagsby. Let this pleasing incident admonish us to turn

a charitable ear to all beginners that need help.

SEQUEL

The next week Snagsby was back with five rejected manuscripts. The

celebrated author was a little surprised, because in the books the

young struggler had needed but one lift, apparently. However, he plowed

through these papers, removing unnecessary flowers and digging up some

acres of adjective-stumps, and then succeeded in getting two of the

articles accepted.

A week or so drifted by, and the grateful Snagsby arrived with another

cargo. The celebrated author had felt a mighty glow of satisfaction

within himself the first time he had successfully befriended the poor

young struggler, and had compared himself with the generous people in

the books with high gratification; but he was beginning to suspect now

that he had struck upon something fresh in the noble-episode line.

His enthusiasm took a chill. Still, he could not bear to repulse this

struggling young author, who clung to him with such pretty simplicity

and trustfulness.

Well, the upshot of it all was that the celebrated author presently

found himself permanently freighted with the poor young beginner. All

his mild efforts to unload this cargo went for nothing. He had to give

daily counsel, daily encouragement; he had to keep on procuring

magazine acceptances, and then revamping the manuscripts to make them

presentable. When the young aspirant got a start at last, he rode into

sudden fame by describing the celebrated author's private life with such

a caustic humor and such minuteness of blistering detail that the book

sold a prodigious edition, and broke the celebrated author's heart with

mortification. With his latest gasp he said, "Alas, the books deceived

me; they do not tell the whole story. Beware of the struggling

young author, my friends. Whom God sees fit to starve, let not man

presumptuously rescue to his own undoing."

THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND

One day a lady was driving through the principal street of a great city

with her little boy, when the horses took fright and dashed madly away,

hurling the coachman from his box and leaving the occupants of the

carnage paralyzed with terror. But a brave youth who was driving a

grocery-wagon threw himself before the plunging animals, and succeeded

in arresting their flight at the peril of his own.--[This is probably a

misprint.--M. T.]--The grateful lady took his number, and upon arriving

at her home she related the heroic act to her husband (who had read the

books), who listened with streaming eyes to the moving recital, and who,

after returning thanks, in conjunction with his restored loved ones, to

Him who suffereth not even a sparrow to fall to the ground unnoticed,

sent for the brave young person, and, placing a check for five hundred

dollars in his hand, said, "Take this as a reward for your noble act,

William Ferguson, and if ever you shall need a friend, remember that

Thompson McSpadden has a grateful heart." Let us learn from this that a

good deed cannot fail to benefit the doer, however humble he may be.

SEQUEL

William Ferguson called the next week and asked Mr. McSpadden to use his

influence to get him a higher employment, he feeling capable of

better things than driving a grocer's wagon. Mr. McSpadden got him an

under-clerkship at a good salary.

Presently William Ferguson's mother fell sick, and William--Well, to

cut the story short, Mr. McSpadden consented to take her into his house.

Before long she yearned for the society of her younger children; so Mary

and Julia were admitted also, and little Jimmy, their brother. Jimmy had

a pocket knife, and he wandered into the drawing-room with it one

day, alone, and reduced ten thousand dollars' worth of furniture to an

indeterminable value in rather less than three-quarters of an hour. A

day or two later he fell down-stairs and broke his neck, and seventeen

of his family's relatives came to the house to attend the funeral. This

made them acquainted, and they kept the kitchen occupied after that, and

likewise kept the McSpaddens busy hunting up situations of various sorts

for them, and hunting up more when they wore these out. The old woman

drank a good deal and swore a good deal; but the grateful McSpaddens

knew it was their duty to reform her, considering what her son had done

for them, so they clave nobly to their generous task. William came

often and got decreasing sums of money, and asked for higher and

more lucrative employments--which the grateful McSpadden more or less

promptly procured for him. McSpadden consented also, after some demur,

to fit William for college; but when the first vacation came and the

hero requested to be sent to Europe for his health, the persecuted

McSpadden rose against the tyrant and revolted. He plainly and squarely

refused. William Ferguson's mother was so astounded that she let her

gin-bottle drop, and her profane lips refused to do their office. When

she recovered she said in a half-gasp, "Is this your gratitude? Where

would your wife and boy be now, but for my son?"

William said, "Is this your gratitude? Did I save your wife's life or

not? Tell me that!"

Seven relations swarmed in from the kitchen and each said, "And this is

his gratitude!"

William's sisters stared, bewildered, and said, "And this is his

grat--" but were interrupted by their mother, who burst into tears and

exclaimed,

"To think that my sainted little Jimmy threw away his life in the

service of such a reptile!"

Then the pluck of the revolutionary McSpadden rose to the occasion, and

he replied with fervor, "Out of my house, the whole beggarly tribe

of you! I was beguiled by the books, but shall never be beguiled

again--once is sufficient for me." And turning to William he shouted,

"Yes, you did save my wife's life, and the next man that does it shall

die in his tracks!"

Not being a clergyman, I place my text at the end of my sermon instead

of at the beginning. Here it is, from Mr. Noah Brooks's Recollections of

President Lincoln in "Scribners Monthly":

J.  H.  Hackett, in his part of Falstaff, was an actor who gave Mr.

Lincoln great delight.  With his usual desire to signify to others

his sense of obligation, Mr. Lincoln wrote a genial little note to

the actor expressing his pleasure at witnessing his performance.

Mr. Hackett, in reply, sent a book of some sort; perhaps it was one

of his own authorship.  He also wrote several notes to the

President.  One night, quite late, when the episode had passed out

of my mind, I went to the White House in answer to a message.

Passing into the President's office, I noticed, to my surprise,

Hackett sitting in the anteroom as if waiting for an audience.  The

President asked me if any one was outside.  On being told, he said,

half sadly, "Oh, I can't see him, I can't see him; I was in hopes he

had gone away."  Then he added, "Now this just illustrates the

difficulty of having pleasant friends and acquaintances in this

place.  You know how I liked Hackett as an actor, and how I wrote to

tell him so.  He sent me that book, and there I thought the matter

would end.  He is a master of his place in the profession, I

suppose, and well fixed in it; but just because we had a little

friendly correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants

something.  What do you suppose he wants?"  I could not guess, and

Mr. Lincoln added, "well, he wants to be consul to London.  Oh,

dear!"

I will observe, in conclusion, that the William Ferguson incident

occurred, and within my personal knowledge--though I have changed the

nature of the details, to keep William from recognizing himself in it.

All the readers of this article have in some sweet and gushing hour of

their lives played the role of Magnanimous-Incident hero. I wish I knew

how many there are among them who are willing to talk about that episode

and like to be reminded of the consequences that flowed from it.

PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see

if he can discover anything harmful in them?

Conductor, when you receive a fare,

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,

A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,

A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

CHORUS

Punch, brothers! punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago,

and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession

of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and

when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had

eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day

before--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my

den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it

to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I fought hard for

an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip for

an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and

so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined--I could

see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently

discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.

When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no

good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went

on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the

afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner;

suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed

and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at

midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible

upon the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the

passenjare." By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and

was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"Punch! oh, punch!

punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and

went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev.

Mr.------, to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at

me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr.------ talked, talked, talked

as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile,

Mr.------ said "Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard

and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!"

Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch brothers, punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said:

"I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any

relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet--maybe

it was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that sounded

so pathetic. What is--"

But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless,

heartbreaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip

for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in

the presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the

other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.------ laid his hand on my

shoulder and shouted:--

"Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at the

Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never got

a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at

it! look at it! Feast your eye on it! You have traveled; you have seen

boasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. What

do you say to this?"

I sighed wearily; and murmured:--

"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent

fare, punch in the presence of the passenjare."

Rev. Mr. ------ stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently,

and looked long at me; then he said:--

"Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are

about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything

in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch in

the--how is it they go?"

I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines.

My friend's face lighted with interest. He said:--

"Why, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It flows

along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over

just once more, and then I'll have them, sure."

I said them over. Then Mr. ------ said them. He made one little mistake,

which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them right. Now a

great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle

departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace

descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing

for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then my

freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of many

a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously,

jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's

hand at parting, I said:--

"Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said

a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"

The Rev. Mr.------ turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh,

and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:

"Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the

passenjare!"

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow!

he has got it, now."

I did not see Mr.------ for two or three days after that. Then, on

Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into

a seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to

my face and said:--

"Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless

rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after

hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the torments

of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and

took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued

old friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon. I

took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But I

never got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train started

and the car-wheels began their 'clack, clack-clack-clack-clack!

clack-clack!--clack-clack-clack!' and right away those odious rhymes

fitted themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour I sat there and

set a syllable of those rhymes to every separate and distinct clack

the car-wheels made. Why, I was as fagged out, then, as if I had been

chopping wood all day. My skull was splitting with headache. It seemed

to me that I must go mad if I sat there any longer; so I undressed and

went to bed. I stretched myself out in my berth, and--well, you

know what the result was. The thing went right along, just the same.

'Clack-clack clack, a blue trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for an

eight-cent fare; clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack clack-clack, for a

six-cent fare, and so on, and so on, and so on punch in the presence of

the passenjare!' Sleep? Not a single wink! I was almost a lunatic when

I got to Boston. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could,

but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and woven in

and out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence

of the passenjare.' And the most distressing thing was that my delivery

dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and I could

actually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of it with

their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but before I

got through the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their heads in

solemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had finished,

I fled to the anteroom in a state bordering on frenzy. Of course

it would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of the

deceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into

the church. She began to sob, and said:--

"'Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he died!'

"'Yes!' I said, 'he is gone, he is gone, he is gone--oh, will this

suffering never cease!'

"'You loved him, then! Oh, you too loved him!'

"'Loved him! Loved who?'

"'Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!'

"'Oh--him! Yes--oh, yes, yes. Certainly--certainly. Punch--punch--oh,

this misery will kill me!'

"'Bless you! bless you, sir, for these sweet words! I, too, suffer in

this dear loss. Were you present during his last moments?'

"'Yes. I--whose last moments?'

"'His. The dear departed's.'

"'Yes! Oh, yes--yes--yes! I suppose so, I think so, I don't know! Oh,

certainly--I was there--I was there!'

"'Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his last

words--oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say?'

"'He said--he said--oh, my head, my head, my head! He said--he said--he

never said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence of the

passenjare! Oh, leave me, madam! In the name of all that is generous,

leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair!--a buff trip slip for a

six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare--endu--rance can

no fur--ther go!--PUNCH in the presence of the passenjare!"

My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and then

he said impressively:--

"Mark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope. But, ah

me, it is just as well--it is just as well. You could not do me any

good. The time has long gone by when words could comfort me. Something

tells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the jigger of that

remorseless jingle. There--there it is coming on me again: a blue trip

slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a--"

Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful trance

and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.

How did I finally save him from an asylum? I took him to a neighboring

university and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes

into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it with

them, now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article?

It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader,

if you should came across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them--avoid

them as you would a pestilence!

THE GREAT REVOLUTION IN PITCAIRN

Let me refresh the reader's memory a little. Nearly a hundred years ago

the crew of the British ship Bounty mutinied, set the captain and his

officers adrift upon the open sea, took possession of the ship, and

sailed southward. They procured wives for themselves among the natives

of Tahiti, then proceeded to a lonely little rock in mid-Pacific, called

Pitcairn's Island, wrecked the vessel, stripped her of everything that

might be useful to a new colony, and established themselves on shore.

Pitcairn's is so far removed from the track of commerce that it was many

years before another vessel touched there. It had always been considered

an uninhabited island; so when a ship did at last drop its anchor there,

in 1808, the captain was greatly surprised to find the place peopled.

Although the mutineers had fought among themselves, and gradually killed

each other off until only two or three of the original stock remained,

these tragedies had not occurred before a number of children had been

born; so in 1808 the island had a population of twenty-seven persons.

John Adams, the chief mutineer, still survived, and was to live many

years yet, as governor and patriarch of the flock. From being mutineer

and homicide, he had turned Christian and teacher, and his nation of

twenty-seven persons was now the purest and devoutest in Christendom.

Adams had long ago hoisted the British flag and constituted his island

an appanage of the British crown.

To-day the population numbers ninety persons--sixteen men, nineteen

women, twenty-five boys, and thirty girls--all descendants of the

mutineers, all bearing the family names of those mutineers, and all

speaking English, and English only. The island stands high up out of

the sea, and has precipitous walls. It is about three-quarters of a mile

long, and in places is as much as half a mile wide. Such arable land as

it affords is held by the several families, according to a division made

many years ago. There is some live stock--goats, pigs, chickens, and

cats; but no dogs, and no large animals. There is one church building

used also as a capitol, a schoolhouse, and a public library. The title

of the governor has been, for a generation or two, "Magistrate and Chief

Ruler, in subordination to her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain." It

was his province to make the laws, as well as execute them. His office

was elective; everybody over seventeen years old had a vote--no matter

about the sex.

The sole occupations of the people were farming and fishing; their

sole recreation, religious services. There has never been a shop in the

island, nor any money. The habits and dress of the people have always

been primitive, and their laws simple to puerility. They have lived in

a deep Sabbath tranquillity, far from the world and its ambitions and

vexations, and neither knowing nor caring what was going on in the

mighty empires that lie beyond their limitless ocean solitudes. Once in

three or four years a ship touched there, moved them with aged news

of bloody battles, devastating epidemics, fallen thrones, and ruined

dynasties, then traded them some soap and flannel for some yams and

breadfruit, and sailed away, leaving them to retire into their peaceful

dreams and pious dissipations once more.

On the 8th of last September, Admiral de Horsey, commander-in-chief of

the British fleet in the Pacific, visited Pitcairn's Island, and speaks

as follows in his official report to the admiralty:--

They have beans, carrots, turnips, cabbages, and a little maize;

pineapples, fig-trees, custard-apples, and oranges; lemons, and

cocoa-nuts.  Clothing is obtained alone from passing ships, in barter

for refreshments.  There are no springs on the island, but as it

rains generally once a month they have plenty of water, although at

times in former years they have suffered from drought.  No alcoholic

liquors, except for medicinal purposes, are used, and a drunkard is

unknown....

The necessary articles required by the islanders are best shown by

those we furnished in barter for refreshments: namely, flannel,

serge, drill, half-boots, combs, tobacco, and soap.  They also stand

much in need of maps and slates for their school, and tools of any

kind are most acceptable.  I caused them to be supplied from the

public stores with a Union jack for display on the arrival of

ships, and a pit-saw, of which they were greatly in need.  This, I

trust, will meet the approval of their lordships.  If the munificent

people of England were only aware of the wants of this most

deserving little colony, they would not long go unsupplied....

Divine service is held every Sunday at 10.30 A.M.  and at 3 P.M.,

in the house built and used by John Adams for that purpose until he

died in 1829.  It is conducted strictly in accordance with the

liturgy of the Church of England, by Mr. Simon Young, their selected

pastor, who is much respected.  A Bible class is held every

Wednesday, when all who conveniently can, attend.  There is also a

general meeting for prayer on the first Friday in every month.

Family prayers are said in every house the first thing in the

morning and the last thing in the evening, and no food is partaken

of without asking God's blessing before and afterward.  Of these

islanders' religious attributes no one can speak without deep

respect.  A people whose greatest pleasure and privilege is to

commune in prayer with their God, and to join in hymns of praise,

and who are, moreover, cheerful, diligent, and probably freer from

vice than any other community, need no priest among them.

Now I come to a sentence in the admiral's report which he dropped

carelessly from his pen, no doubt, and never gave the matter a second

thought. He little imagined what a freight of tragic prophecy it bore!

This is the sentence:--

One stranger, an American, has settled on the island--a doubtful

acquisition.

A doubtful acquisition, indeed! Captain Ormsby, in the American ship

Hornet, touched at Pitcairn's nearly four months after the admiral's

visit, and from the facts which he gathered there we now know all about

that American. Let us put these facts together in historical form. The

American's name was Butterworth Stavely. As soon as he had become

well acquainted with all the people--and this took but a few days, of

course--he began to ingratiate himself with them by all the arts he

could command. He became exceedingly popular, and much looked up to; for

one of the first things he did was to forsake his worldly way of life,

and throw all his energies into religion. He was always reading his

Bible, or praying, or singing hymns, or asking blessings. In prayer, no

one had such "liberty" as he, no one could pray so long or so well.

At last, when he considered the time to be ripe, he began secretly to

sow the seeds of discontent among the people. It was his deliberate

purpose, from the beginning, to subvert the government, but of course he

kept that to himself for a time. He used different arts with different

individuals. He awakened dissatisfaction in one quarter by calling

attention to the shortness of the Sunday services; he argued that there

should be three three-hour services on Sunday instead of only two.

Many had secretly held this opinion before; they now privately banded

themselves into a party to work for it. He showed certain of the women

that they were not allowed sufficient voice in the prayer-meetings;

thus another party was formed. No weapon was beneath his notice; he

even descended to the children, and awoke discontent in their breasts

because--as he discovered for them--they had not enough Sunday-school.

This created a third party.

Now, as the chief of these parties, he found himself the strongest power

in the community. So he proceeded to his next move--a no less important

one than the impeachment of the chief magistrate, James Russell Nickoy;

a man of character and ability, and possessed of great wealth, he being

the owner of a house with a parlor to it, three acres and a half of

yam land, and the only boat in Pitcairn's, a whaleboat; and, most

unfortunately, a pretext for this impeachment offered itself at just the

right time.

One of the earliest and most precious laws of the island was the law

against trespass. It was held in great reverence, and was regarded

as the palladium of the people's liberties. About thirty years ago an

important case came before the courts under this law, in this wise: a

chicken belonging to Elizabeth Young (aged, at that time, fifty-eight,

a daughter of John Mills, one of the mutineers of the Bounty) trespassed

upon the grounds of Thursday October Christian (aged twenty-nine, a

grandson of Fletcher Christian, one of the mutineers). Christian killed

the chicken. According to the law, Christian could keep the chicken; or,

if he preferred, he could restore its remains to the owner and receive

damages in "produce" to an amount equivalent to the waste and injury

wrought by the trespasser. The court records set forth that "the said

Christian aforesaid did deliver the aforesaid remains to the said

Elizabeth Young, and did demand one bushel of yams in satisfaction of the

damage done." But Elizabeth Young considered the demand exorbitant; the

parties could not agree; therefore Christian brought suit in the courts.

He lost his case in the justice's court; at least, he was awarded only

a half-peck of yams, which he considered insufficient, and in the

nature of a defeat. He appealed. The case lingered several years in an

ascending grade of courts, and always resulted in decrees sustaining the

original verdict; and finally the thing got into the supreme court, and

there it stuck for twenty years. But last summer, even the supreme court

managed to arrive at a decision at last. Once more the original verdict

was sustained. Christian then said he was satisfied; but Stavely was

present, and whispered to him and to his lawyer, suggesting, "as a mere

form," that the original law be exhibited, in order to make sure that

it still existed. It seemed an odd idea, but an ingenious one. So the

demand was made. A messenger was sent to the magistrate's house; he

presently returned with the tidings that it had disappeared from among

the state archives.

The court now pronounced its late decision void, since it had been made

under a law which had no actual existence.

Great excitement ensued immediately. The news swept abroad over the

whole island that the palladium of the public liberties was lost--maybe

treasonably destroyed. Within thirty minutes almost the entire nation

were in the court-room--that is to say, the church. The impeachment of

the chief magistrate followed, upon Stavely's motion. The accused met

his misfortune with the dignity which became his great office. He did

not plead, or even argue; he offered the simple defense that he had not

meddled with the missing law; that he had kept the state archives in

the same candle-box that had been used as their depository from the

beginning; and that he was innocent of the removal or destruction of the

lost document.

But nothing could save him; he was found guilty of misprision of

treason, and degraded from his office, and all his property was

confiscated.

The lamest part of the whole shameful matter was the reason suggested

by his enemies for his destruction of the law, to wit: that he did it to

favor Christian, because Christian was his cousin! Whereas Stavely was

the only individual in the entire nation who was not his cousin. The

reader must remember that all these people are the descendants of half

a dozen men; that the first children intermarried together and bore

grandchildren to the mutineers; that these grandchildren intermarried;

after them, great and great-great-grandchildren intermarried; so that

to-day everybody is blood kin to everybody. Moreover, the relationships

are wonderfully, even astoundingly, mixed up and complicated. A

stranger, for instance, says to an islander:--

"You speak of that young woman as your cousin; a while ago you called

her your aunt."

"Well, she is my aunt, and my cousin, too. And also my stepsister, my

niece, my fourth cousin, my thirty-third cousin, my forty-second cousin,

my great-aunt, my grandmother, my widowed sister-in-law--and next week

she will be my wife."

So the charge of nepotism against the chief magistrate was weak. But

no matter; weak or strong, it suited Stavely. Stavely was immediately

elected to the vacant magistracy, and, oozing reform from every pore,

he went vigorously to work. In no long time religious services raged

everywhere and unceasingly. By command, the second prayer of the Sunday

morning service, which had customarily endured some thirty-five or forty

minutes, and had pleaded for the world, first by continent and then by

national and tribal detail, was extended to an hour and a half, and

made to include supplications in behalf of the possible peoples in the

several planets. Everybody was pleased with this; everybody said, "Now

this is something like." By command, the usual three-hour sermons were

doubled in length. The nation came in a body to testify their gratitude

to the new magistrate. The old law forbidding cooking on the Sabbath was

extended to the prohibition of eating, also. By command, Sunday-school

was privileged to spread over into the week. The joy of all classes was

complete. In one short month the new magistrate had become the people's

idol!

The time was ripe for this man's next move. He began, cautiously at

first, to poison the public mind against England. He took the chief

citizens aside, one by one, and conversed with them on this topic.

Presently he grew bolder, and spoke out. He said the nation owed it to

itself, to its honor, to its great traditions, to rise in its might and

throw off "this galling English yoke."

But the simple islanders answered:

"We had not noticed that it galled. How does it gall? England sends

a ship once in three or four years to give us soap and clothing, and

things which we sorely need and gratefully receive; but she never

troubles us; she lets us go our own way."

"She lets you go your own way! So slaves have felt and spoken in all the

ages! This speech shows how fallen you are, how base, how brutalized

you have become, under this grinding tyranny! What! has all manly pride

forsaken you? Is liberty nothing? Are you content to be a mere appendage

to a foreign and hateful sovereignty, when you might rise up and take

your rightful place in the august family of nations, great, free,

enlightened, independent, the minion of no sceptered master, but the

arbiter of your own destiny, and a voice and a power in decreeing the

destinies of your sister-sovereignties of the world?"

Speeches like this produced an effect by-and-by. Citizens began to feel

the English yoke; they did not know exactly how or whereabouts they

felt it, but they were perfectly certain they did feel it. They got to

grumbling a good deal, and chafing under their chains, and longing for

relief and release. They presently fell to hating the English flag, that

sign and symbol of their nation's degradation; they ceased to glance

up at it as they passed the capitol, but averted their eyes and grated

their teeth; and one morning, when it was found trampled into the mud at

the foot of the staff, they left it there, and no man put his hand to

it to hoist it again. A certain thing which was sure to happen sooner or

later happened now. Some of the chief citizens went to the magistrate by

night, and said:--

"We can endure this hated tyranny no longer. How can we cast it off?"

"By a coup d'etat."

"How?"

"A coup d'etat. It is like this: everything is got ready, and at the

appointed moment I, as the official head of the nation, publicly and

solemnly proclaim its independence, and absolve it from allegiance to

any and all other powers whatsoever."

"That sounds simple and easy. We can do that right away. Then what will

be the next thing to do?"

"Seize all the defenses and public properties of all kinds, establish

martial law, put the army and navy on a war footing, and proclaim the

empire!"

This fine program dazzled these innocents. They said:--

"This is grand--this is splendid; but will not England resist?"

"Let her. This rock is a Gibraltar."

"True. But about the empire? Do we need an empire and an emperor?"

"What you need, my friends, is unification. Look at Germany; look at

Italy. They are unified. Unification is the thing. It makes living dear.

That constitutes progress. We must have a standing army and a navy.

Taxes follow, as a matter of course. All these things summed up make

grandeur. With unification and grandeur, what more can you want? Very

well--only the empire can confer these boons."

So on the 8th day of December Pitcairn's Island was proclaimed a free

and independent nation; and on the same day the solemn coronation of

Butterworth I, Emperor of Pitcairn's Island, took place, amid great

rejoicings and festivities. The entire nation, with the exception of

fourteen persons, mainly little children, marched past the throne in

single file, with banners and music, the procession being upward of

ninety feet long; and some said it was as much as three-quarters of a

minute passing a given point. Nothing like it had ever been seen in the

history of the island before. Public enthusiasm was measureless.

Now straightway imperial reforms began. Orders of nobility were

instituted. A minister of the navy was appointed, and the whale-boat put

in commission. A minister of war was created, and ordered to proceed at

once with the formation of a standing army. A first lord of the treasury

was named, and commanded to get up a taxation scheme, and also open

negotiations for treaties, offensive, defensive, and commercial, with

foreign powers. Some generals and admirals were appointed; also

some chamberlains, some equerries in waiting, and some lords of the

bedchamber.

At this point all the material was used up. The Grand Duke of Galilee,

minister of war, complained that all the sixteen grown men in the empire

had been given great offices, and consequently would not consent to

serve in the ranks; wherefore his standing army was at a stand-still. The

Marquis of Ararat, minister of the navy, made a similar complaint. He

said he was willing to steer the whale-boat himself, but he must have

somebody to man her.

The emperor did the best he could in the circumstances: he took all the

boys above the age of ten years away from their mothers, and pressed

them into the army, thus constructing a corps of seventeen privates,

officered by one lieutenant-general and two major-generals. This pleased

the minister of war, but procured the enmity of all the mothers in the

land; for they said their precious ones must now find bloody graves in

the fields of war, and he would be answerable for it. Some of the more

heartbroken and unappeasable among them lay constantly wait for the

emperor and threw yams at him, unmindful of the body-guard.

On account of the extreme scarcity of material, it was found necessary

to require the Duke of Bethany postmaster-general, to pull stroke-oar

in the navy and thus sit in the rear of a noble of lower degree namely,

Viscount Canaan, lord-justice of the common pleas. This turned the Duke

of Bethany into tolerably open malcontent and a secret conspirator--a

thing which the emperor foresaw, but could not help.

Things went from bad to worse. The emperor raised Nancy Peters to the

peerage on one day, and married her the next, notwithstanding, for

reasons of state, the cabinet had strenuously advised him to marry

Emmeline, eldest daughter of the Archbishop of Bethlehem. This caused

trouble in a powerful quarter--the church. The new empress secured the

support and friendship of two-thirds of the thirty-six grown women in

the nation by absorbing them into her court as maids of honor; but this

made deadly enemies of the remaining twelve. The families of the maids

of honor soon began to rebel, because there was nobody at home to keep

house. The twelve snubbed women refused to enter the imperial kitchen

as servants; so the empress had to require the Countess of Jericho and

other great court dames to fetch water, sweep the palace, and perform

other menial and equally distasteful services. This made bad blood in

that department.

Everybody fell to complaining that the taxes levied for the support

of the army, the navy, and the rest of the imperial establishment were

intolerably burdensome, and were reducing the nation to beggary. The

emperor's reply--"Look--Look at Germany; look at Italy. Are you better

than they? and haven't you unification?"---did not satisfy them. They

said, "People can't eat unification, and we are starving. Agriculture

has ceased. Everybody is in the army, everybody is in the navy,

everybody is in the public service, standing around in a uniform, with

nothing whatever to do, nothing to eat, and nobody to till the fields--"

"Look at Germany; look at Italy. It is the same there. Such is

unification, and there's no other way to get it--no other way to keep it

after you've got it," said the poor emperor always.

But the grumblers only replied, "We can't stand the taxes--we can't

stand them."

Now right on top of this the cabinet reported a national debt amounting

to upward of forty-five dollars--half a dollar to every individual in

the nation. And they proposed to fund something. They had heard that

this was always done in such emergencies. They proposed duties on

exports; also on imports. And they wanted to issue bonds; also paper

money, redeemable in yams and cabbages in fifty years. They said the pay

of the army and of the navy and of the whole governmental machine was

far in arrears, and unless something was done, and done immediately,

national bankruptcy must ensue, and possibly insurrection and

revolution. The emperor at once resolved upon a high-handed measure, and

one of a nature never before heard of in Pitcairn's Island. He went in

state to the church on Sunday morning, with the army at his back, and

commanded the minister of the treasury to take up a collection.

That was the feather that broke the camel's back. First one citizen, and

then another, rose and refused to submit to this unheard-of outrage--and

each refusal was followed by the immediate confiscation of the

malcontent's property. This vigor soon stopped the refusals, and the

collection proceeded amid a sullen and ominous silence. As the emperor

withdrew with the troops, he said, "I will teach you who is master

here." Several persons shouted, "Down with unification!" They were at

once arrested and torn from the arms of their weeping friends by the

soldiery.

But in the mean time, as any prophet might have foreseen, a Social

Democrat had been developed. As the emperor stepped into the gilded

imperial wheelbarrow at the church door, the social democrat stabbed at

him fifteen or sixteen times with a harpoon, but fortunately with such a

peculiarly social democratic unprecision of aim as to do no damage.

That very night the convulsion came. The nation rose as one man--though

forty-nine of the revolutionists were of the other sex. The infantry

threw down their pitchforks; the artillery cast aside their cocoa-nuts;

the navy revolted; the emperor was seized, and bound hand and foot in

his palace. He was very much depressed. He said:--

"I freed you from a grinding tyranny; I lifted you up out of your

degradation, and made you a nation among nations; I gave you a strong,

compact, centralized government; and, more than all, I gave you the

blessing of blessings--unification. I have done all this, and my reward

is hatred, insult, and these bonds. Take me; do with me as you will.

I here resign my crown and all my dignities, and gladly do I release

myself from their too heavy burden. For your sake I took them up; for

your sake I lay them down. The imperial jewel is no more; now bruise and

defile as ye will the useless setting."

By a unanimous voice the people condemned the ex-emperor and the social

democrat to perpetual banishment from church services, or to perpetual

labor as galley-slaves in the whale-boat--whichever they might prefer.

The next day the nation assembled again, and rehoisted the British flag,

reinstated the British tyranny, reduced the nobility to the condition of

commoners again, and then straightway turned their diligent attention

to the weeding of the ruined and neglected yam patches, and the

rehabilitation of the old useful industries and the old healing and

solacing pieties. The ex-emperor restored the lost trespass law, and

explained that he had stolen it--not to injure any one, but to further

his political projects. Therefore the nation gave the late chief

magistrate his office again, and also his alienated Property.

Upon reflection, the ex-emperor and the social democrat chose perpetual

banishment from religious services in preference to perpetual labor as

galley-slaves "with perpetual religious services," as they phrased

it; wherefore the people believed that the poor fellows' troubles had

unseated their reason, and so they judged it best to confine them for

the present. Which they did.

Such is the history of Pitcairn's "doubtful acquisition."

THE CANVASSER'S TALE

Poor, sad-eyed stranger! There was that about his humble mien, his tired

look, his decayed-gentility clothes, that almost reached the

mustard-seed of charity that still remained, remote and lonely, in the

empty vastness of my heart, notwithstanding I observed a portfolio under

his arm, and said to myself, Behold, Providence hath delivered his

servant into the hands of another canvasser.

Well, these people always get one interested. Before I well knew how it

came about, this one was telling me his history, and I was all attention

and sympathy. He told it something like this:--

My parents died, alas, when I was a little, sinless child. My uncle

Ithuriel took me to his heart and reared me as his own. He was my only

relative in the wide world; but he was good and rich and generous. He

reared me in the lap of luxury. I knew no want that money could satisfy.

In the fullness of time I was graduated, and went with two of my

servants--my chamberlain and my valet--to travel in foreign countries.

During four years I flitted upon careless wing amid the beauteous

gardens of the distant strand, if you will permit this form of speech in

one whose tongue was ever attuned to poesy; and indeed I so speak with

confidence, as one unto his kind, for I perceive by your eyes that you

too, sir, are gifted with the divine inflation. In those far lands I

reveled in the ambrosial food that fructifies the soul, the mind, the

heart. But of all things, that which most appealed to my inborn esthetic

taste was the prevailing custom there, among the rich, of making

collections of elegant and costly rarities, dainty objets de vertu,

and in an evil hour I tried to uplift my uncle Ithuriel to a plane of

sympathy with this exquisite employment.

I wrote and told him of one gentleman's vast collection of shells;

another's noble collection of meerschaum pipes; another's elevating and

refining collection of undecipherable autographs; another's

priceless collection of old china; another's enchanting collection of

postage-stamps--and so forth and so on. Soon my letters yielded fruit.

My uncle began to look about for something to make a collection of.

You may know, perhaps, how fleetly a taste like this dilates. His soon

became a raging fever, though I knew it not. He began to neglect his

great pork business; presently he wholly retired and turned an elegant

leisure into a rabid search for curious things. His wealth was vast, and

he spared it not. First he tried cow-bells. He made a collection which

filled five large salons, and comprehended all the different sorts of

cow-bells that ever had been contrived, save one. That one--an antique,

and the only specimen extant--was possessed by another collector. My

uncle offered enormous sums for it, but the gentleman would not sell.

Doubtless you know what necessarily resulted. A true collector attaches

no value to a collection that is not complete. His great heart

breaks, he sells his hoard, he turns his mind to some field that seems

unoccupied.

Thus did my uncle. He next tried brickbats. After piling up a vast and

intensely interesting collection, the former difficulty supervened;

his great heart broke again; he sold out his soul's idol to the retired

brewer who possessed the missing brick. Then he tried flint hatchets

and other implements of Primeval Man, but by and by discovered that the

factory where they were made was supplying other collectors as well

as himself. He tried Aztec inscriptions and stuffed whales--another

failure, after incredible labor and expense. When his collection seemed

at last perfect, a stuffed whale arrived from Greenland and an Aztec

inscription from the Cundurango regions of Central America that made all

former specimens insignificant. My uncle hastened to secure these

noble gems. He got the stuffed whale, but another collector got the

inscription. A real Cundurango, as possibly you know, is a possession of

such supreme value that, when once a collector gets it, he will rather

part with his family than with it. So my uncle sold out, and saw his

darlings go forth, never more to return; and his coal-black hair turned

white as snow in a single night.

Now he waited, and thought. He knew another disappointment might kill

him. He was resolved that he would choose things next time that no other

man was collecting. He carefully made up his mind, and once more entered

the field-this time to make a collection of echoes.

"Of what?" said I.

Echoes, sir. His first purchase was an echo in Georgia that repeated

four times; his next was a six-repeater in Maryland; his next was a

thirteen-repeater in Maine; his next was a nine-repeater in Kansas;

his next was a twelve-repeater in Tennessee, which he got cheap, so

to speak, because it was out of repair, a portion of the crag which

reflected it having tumbled down. He believed he could repair it at a

cost of a few thousand dollars, and, by increasing the elevation with

masonry, treble the repeating capacity; but the architect who undertook

the job had never built an echo before, and so he utterly spoiled

this one. Before he meddled with it, it used to talk back like a

mother-in-law, but now it was only fit for the deaf-and-dumb asylum.

Well, next he bought a lot of cheap little double-barreled echoes,

scattered around over various states and territories; he got them

at twenty per cent. off by taking the lot. Next he bought a perfect

Gatling-gun of an echo in Oregon, and it cost a fortune, I can tell

you. You may know, sir, that in the echo market the scale of prices

is cumulative, like the carat-scale in diamonds; in fact, the same

phraseology is used. A single-carat echo is worth but ten dollars over

and above the value of the land it is on; a two-carat or double-barreled

echo is worth thirty dollars; a five-carat is worth nine hundred and

fifty; a ten-carat is worth thirteen thousand. My uncle's Oregon-echo,

which he called the Great Pitt Echo, was a twenty-two carat gem, and

cost two hundred and sixteen thousand dollars--they threw the land in,

for it was four hundred miles from a settlement.

Well, in the mean time my path was a path of roses. I was the accepted

suitor of the only and lovely daughter of an English earl, and was

beloved to distraction. In that dear presence I swam in seas of bliss.

The family were content, for it was known that I was sole heir to an

uncle held to be worth five millions of dollars. However, none of us

knew that my uncle had become a collector, at least in anything more

than a small way, for esthetic amusement.

Now gathered the clouds above my unconscious head. That divine echo,

since known throughout the world as the Great Koh-i-noor, or Mountain

of Repetitions, was discovered. It was a sixty-five carat gem. You could

utter a word and it would talk back at you for fifteen minutes, when the

day was otherwise quiet. But behold, another fact came to light at the

same time: another echo-collector was in the field. The two rushed to

make the peerless purchase. The property consisted of a couple of

small hills with a shallow swale between, out yonder among the back

settlements of New York State. Both men arrived on the ground at the

same time, and neither knew the other was there. The echo was not all

owned by one man; a person by the name of Williamson Bolivar Jarvis

owned the east hill, and a person by the name of Harbison J. Bledso

owned the west hill; the swale between was the dividing-line. So while

my uncle was buying Jarvis's hill for three million two hundred and

eighty-five thousand dollars, the other party was buying Bledso's hill

for a shade over three million.

Now, do you perceive the natural result? Why, the noblest collection of

echoes on earth was forever and ever incomplete, since it possessed but

the one-half of the king echo of the universe. Neither man was content

with this divided ownership, yet neither would sell to the other.

There were jawings, bickerings, heart-burnings. And at last that other

collector, with a malignity which only a collector can ever feel toward

a man and a brother, proceeded to cut down his hill!

You see, as long as he could not have the echo, he was resolved that

nobody should have it. He would remove his hill, and then there would be

nothing to reflect my uncle's echo. My uncle remonstrated with him, but

the man said, "I own one end of this echo; I choose to kill my end; you

must take care of your own end yourself."

Well, my uncle got an injunction put on him. The other man appealed and

fought it in a higher court. They carried it on up, clear to the Supreme

Court of the United States. It made no end of trouble there. Two of

the judges believed that an echo was personal property, because it was

impalpable to sight and touch, and yet was purchasable, salable, and

consequently taxable; two others believed that an echo was real estate,

because it was manifestly attached to the land, and was not removable

from place to place; other of the judges contended that an echo was not

property at all.

It was finally decided that the echo was property; that the hills were

property; that the two men were separate and independent owners of the

two hills, but tenants in common in the echo; therefore defendant was at

full liberty to cut down his hill, since it belonged solely to him, but

must give bonds in three million dollars as indemnity for damages which

might result to my uncle's half of the echo. This decision also debarred

my uncle from using defendant's hill to reflect his part of the echo,

without defendant's consent; he must use only his own hill; if his part

of the echo would not go, under these circumstances, it was sad, of

course, but the court could find no remedy. The court also debarred

defendant from using my uncle's hill to reflect his end of the echo,

without consent. You see the grand result! Neither man would give

consent, and so that astonishing and most noble echo had to cease from

its great powers; and since that day that magnificent property is tied

up and unsalable.

A week before my wedding-day, while I was still swimming in bliss and

the nobility were gathering from far and near to honor our espousals,

came news of my uncle's death, and also a copy of his will, making me

his sole heir. He was gone; alas, my dear benefactor was no more. The

thought surcharges my heart even at this remote day. I handed the will

to the earl; I could not read it for the blinding tears. The earl read

it; then he sternly said, "Sir, do you call this wealth?--but doubtless

you do in your inflated country. Sir, you are left sole heir to a vast

collection of echoes--if a thing can be called a collection that is

scattered far and wide over the huge length and breadth of the American

continent; sir, this is not all; you are head and ears in debt; there

is not an echo in the lot but has a mortgage on it; sir, I am not a hard

man, but I must look to my child's interest; if you had but one echo

which you could honestly call your own, if you had but one echo which

was free from incumbrance, so that you could retire to it with my child,

and by humble, painstaking industry cultivate and improve it, and thus

wrest from it a maintenance, I would not say you nay; but I cannot marry

my child to a beggar. Leave his side, my darling; go, sir, take your

mortgage-ridden echoes and quit my sight forever."

My noble Celestine clung to me in tears, with loving arms, and swore she

would willingly, nay gladly, marry me, though I had not an echo in the

world. But it could not be. We were torn asunder, she to pine and die

within the twelvemonth, I to toil life's long journey sad and alone,

praying daily, hourly, for that release which shall join us together

again in that dear realm where the wicked cease from troubling and the

weary are at rest. Now, sir, if you will be so kind as to look at these

maps and plans in my portfolio, I am sure I can sell you an echo for

less money than any man in the trade. Now this one, which cost my uncle

ten dollars, thirty years ago, and is one of the sweetest things in

Texas, I will let you have for--

"Let me interrupt you," I said. "My friend, I have not had a moment's

respite from canvassers this day. I have bought a sewing-machine which I

did not want; I have bought a map which is mistaken in all its details;

I have bought a clock which will not go; I have bought a moth poison

which the moths prefer to any other beverage; I have bought no end of

useless inventions, and now I have had enough of this foolishness. I

would not have one of your echoes if you were even to give it to me. I

would not let it stay on the place. I always hate a man that tries to

sell me echoes. You see this gun? Now take your collection and move on;

let us not have bloodshed."

But he only smiled a sad, sweet smile, and got out some more diagrams.

You know the result perfectly well, because you know that when you have

once opened the door to a canvasser, the trouble is done and you have

got to suffer defeat.

I compromised with this man at the end of an intolerable hour. I bought

two double-barreled echoes in good condition, and he threw in another,

which he said was not salable because it only spoke German. He said,

"She was a perfect polyglot once, but somehow her palate got down."

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER

The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and

said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."

"Come to what?"

"Interview you."

"Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit

under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been

looking six or seven minutes I found I was obliged to refer to the young

man. I said:--

"How do you spell it?"

"Spell what?"

"Interview."

"Oh, my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?"

"I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means."

"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if

you--if you--"

"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

"In, in, ter, ter, inter--"

"Then you spell it with an I?"

"Why certainly!"

"Oh, that is what took me so long."

"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"

"Well, I--I--hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering

around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But

it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest

e---- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but

you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No

harm--I mean no harm at all."

"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would

not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite

remarkable in that way. Yes--yes; they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the

custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed, I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What

do you do it with?"

"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It ought to be done with

a club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer

asking questions and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage

now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out

the salient points of your public and private history?"

"Oh, with pleasure--with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I

hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular

memory--singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then

again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a

great grief to me."

"Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."

"I will. I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks. Are you ready to begin?"

"Ready."

Q. How old are you?

A. Nineteen, in June.

Q. Indeed. I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were

you born?

A. In Missouri.

Q. When did you begin to write?

A. In 1836.

Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?

A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you

ever met?

A. Aaron Burr.

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen

years!--

A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to

meet Burr?

A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to

make less noise, and--

Q. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been

dead, and if he was dead how could he care whether you made a noise or

not?

A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and

that he was dead.

A. I didn't say he was dead.

Q. But wasn't he dead?

A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.

Q. What did you think?

A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.

Q. Did you--However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask

about something else. What was the date of your birth?

A. Monday, October 31, 1693.

Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old.

How do you account for that?

A. I don't account for it at all.

Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make

yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.

A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has

seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind.

How quick you notice a thing!

Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have

you, any brothers or sisters?

A. Eh! I--I--I think so--yes--but I don't remember.

Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard!

A. Why, what makes you think that?

Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of

on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it; that was a brother of

mine. That's William--Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!

Q. Why? Is he dead, then?

A. Ah! well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great

mystery about it.

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?

A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him--

Q. Buried him! Buried him, without knowing whether he was dead or not?

A. Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.

Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and

you knew he was dead.

A. No! no! We only thought he was.

Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?

A. I bet he didn't.

Q. Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody

was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

A. Ah! that's just it! That's it exactly. You see, we were

twins--defunct and I--and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only

two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some

think it was Bill. Some think it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?

A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this

awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you

a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of

us had a peculiar mark--a large mole on the back of his left hand; that

was me. That child was the one that was drowned!

Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it,

after all.

A. You don't? Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have

been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But,

'sh!--don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows

they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present, and I am

very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good

deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind

telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr

was such a remarkable man?

A. Oh! it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it

at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start

for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said

he wanted to take a last look at the scenery, and so he got up and rode

with the driver.

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company,

and I was sorry to see him go.

PARIS NOTES

[Crowded out of "A Tramp Abroad" to make room for more

vital statistics.--M. T.]

The Parisian travels but little, he knows no language but his own, reads

no literature but his own, and consequently he is pretty narrow and

pretty self-sufficient. However, let us not be too sweeping; there are

Frenchmen who know languages not their own: these are the waiters.

Among the rest, they know English; that is, they know it on the European

plan--which is to say, they can speak it, but can't understand it. They

easily make themselves understood, but it is next to impossible to word

an English sentence in such a way as to enable them to comprehend it.

They think they comprehend it; they pretend they do; but they don't.

Here is a conversation which I had with one of these beings; I wrote it

down at the time, in order to have it exactly correct.

I. These are fine oranges. Where are they grown?

He. More? Yes, I will bring them.

I. No, do not bring any more; I only want to know where they are

from--where they are raised.

He. Yes? (with imperturbable mien and rising inflection.)

I. Yes. Can you tell me what country they are from?

He. Yes? (blandly, with rising inflection.)

I. (disheartened). They are very nice.

He. Good night. (Bows, and retires, quite satisfied with himself.)

That young man could have become a good English scholar by taking

the right sort of pains, but he was French, and wouldn't do that. How

different is the case with our people; they utilize every means that

offers. There are some alleged French Protestants in Paris, and they

built a nice little church on one of the great avenues that lead away

from the Arch of Triumph, and proposed to listen to the correct thing,

preached in the correct way, there, in their precious French tongue, and

be happy. But their little game does not succeed. Our people are always

there ahead of them Sundays, and take up all the room. When the minister

gets up to preach, he finds his house full of devout foreigners, each

ready and waiting, with his little book in his hand--a morocco-bound

Testament, apparently. But only apparently; it is Mr. Bellows's

admirable and exhaustive little French-English dictionary, which in look

and binding and size is just like a Testament and those people are there

to study French. The building has been nicknamed "The Church of the

Gratis French Lesson."

These students probably acquire more language than general information,

for I am told that a French sermon is like a French speech--it never

names a historical event, but only the date of it; if you are not up in

dates, you get left. A French speech is something like this:

Comrades, citizens, brothers, noble parts of the only sublime and

perfect nation, let us not forget that the 21st January cast off our

chains; that the 10th August relieved us of the shameful presence of

foreign spies; that the 5th September was its own justification

before heaven and humanity; that the 18th Brumaire contained the

seeds of its own punishment; that the 14th July was the mighty voice

of liberty proclaiming the resurrection, the new day, and inviting

the oppressed peoples of the earth to look upon the divine face of

France and live; and let us here record our everlasting curse

against the man of the 2d December, and declare in thunder tones,

the native tones of France, that but for him there had been no 17th

March in history, no 12th October, no 19th January, no 22d April,

no 16th November, no 30th September, no 2d July, no 14th February,

no 29th June, no 15th August, no 31st May--that but for him, France

the pure, the grand, the peerless, had had a serene and vacant

almanac to-day!

I have heard of one French sermon which closed in this odd yet eloquent

way:

My hearers, we have sad cause to remember the man of the 13th

January.  The results of the vast crime of the 13th January have

been in just proportion to the magnitude of the set itself.  But for

it there had been no 30 November--sorrowful spectacle!  The grisly

deed of the 16th June had not been done but for it, nor had the man

of the 16th June known existence; to it alone the 3d September was

due, also the fatal 12th October.  Shall we, then, be grateful for

the 13th January, with its freight of death for you and me and all

that breathe?  Yes, my friends, for it gave us also that which had

never come but for it, and it alone--the blessed 25th December.

It may be well enough to explain, though in the case of many of my

readers this will hardly be necessary. The man of the 13th January is

Adam; the crime of that date was the eating of the apple; the sorrowful

spectacle of the 30th November was the expulsion from Eden; the

grisly deed of the 16th June was the murder of Abel; the act of the 3d

September was the beginning of the journey to the land of Nod; the 12th

day of October, the last mountain-tops disappeared under the flood.

When you go to church in France, you want to take your almanac with

you--annotated.

LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY

[Left out of "A Tramp Abroad" because its authenticity seemed

doubtful, and could not at that time be proved.--M. T.]

More than a thousand years ago this small district was a kingdom--a

little bit of a kingdom, a sort of dainty little toy kingdom, as one

might say. It was far removed from the jealousies, strifes, and turmoils

of that old warlike day, and so its life was a simple life, its people

a gentle and guileless race; it lay always in a deep dream of peace, a

soft Sabbath tranquillity; there was no malice, there was no envy, there

was no ambition, consequently there were no heart-burnings, there was no

unhappiness in the land.

In the course of time the old king died and his little son Hubert came

to the throne. The people's love for him grew daily; he was so good and

so pure and so noble, that by and by his love became a passion, almost

a worship. Now at his birth the soothsayers had diligently studied the

stars and found something written in that shining book to this effect:

In Hubert's fourteenth year a pregnant event will happen; the animal

whose singing shall sound sweetest in Hubert's ear shall save

Hubert's life.  So long as the king and the nation shall honor this

animal's race for this good deed, the ancient dynasty shall not fail

of an heir, nor the nation know war or pestilence or poverty.  But

beware an erring choice!

All through the king's thirteenth year but one thing was talked of by

the soothsayers, the statesmen, the little parliament, and the general

people. That one thing was this: How is the last sentence of the

prophecy to be understood? What goes before seems to mean that the

saving animal will choose itself at the proper time; but the closing

sentence seems to mean that the king must choose beforehand, and say

what singer among the animals pleases him best, and that if he choose

wisely the chosen animal will save his life, his dynasty, his people,

but that if he should make "an erring choice"--beware!

By the end of the year there were as many opinions about this matter

as there had been in the beginning; but a majority of the wise and the

simple were agreed that the safest plan would be for the little king to

make choice beforehand, and the earlier the better. So an edict was sent

forth commanding all persons who owned singing creatures to bring them

to the great hall of the palace in the morning of the first day of the

new year. This command was obeyed. When everything was in readiness for

the trial, the king made his solemn entry with the great officers of the

crown, all clothed in their robes of state. The king mounted his golden

throne and prepared to give judgment. But he presently said:--

"These creatures all sing at once; the noise is unendurable; no one can

choose in such a turmoil. Take them all away, and bring back one at a

time."

This was done. One sweet warbler after another charmed the young king's

ear and was removed to make way for another candidate. The precious

minutes slipped by; among so many bewitching songsters he found it hard

to choose, and all the harder because the promised penalty for an error

was so terrible that it unsettled his judgment and made him afraid to

trust his own ears. He grew nervous and his face showed distress. His

ministers saw this, for they never took their eyes from him a moment.

Now they began to say in their hearts:

"He has lost courage--the cool head is gone--he will err--he and his

dynasty and his people are doomed!"

At the end of an hour the king sat silent awhile, and then said:--

"Bring back the linnet."

The linnet trilled forth her jubilant music. In the midst of it the king

was about to uplift his scepter in sign of choice, but checked himself

and said:--

"But let us be sure. Bring back the thrush; let them sing together."

The thrush was brought, and the two birds poured out their marvels of

song together. The king wavered, then his inclination began to settle

and strengthen--one could see it in his countenance. Hope budded in the

hearts of the old ministers, their pulses began to beat quicker, the

scepter began to rise slowly, when: There was a hideous interruption! It

was a sound like this--just at the door:

"Waw... he! waw... he! waw-he!-waw he!-waw-he!"

Everybody was sorely startled--and enraged at himself for showing it.

The next instant the dearest, sweetest, prettiest little peasant-maid

of nine years came tripping in, her brown eyes glowing with childish

eagerness; but when she saw that august company and those angry faces

she stopped and hung her head and put her poor coarse apron to her

eyes. Nobody gave her welcome, none pitied her. Presently she looked up

timidly through her tears, and said:--

"My lord the king, I pray you pardon me, for I meant no wrong. I have no

father and no mother, but I have a goat and a donkey, and they are all

in all to me. My goat gives me the sweetest milk, and when my dear good

donkey brays it seems to me there is no music like to it. So when my

lord the king's jester said the sweetest singer among all the animals

should save the crown and nation, and moved me to bring him here--"

All the court burst into a rude laugh, and the child fled away crying,

without trying to finish her speech. The chief minister gave a private

order that she and her disastrous donkey be flogged beyond the precincts

of the palace and commanded to come within them no more.

Then the trial of the birds was resumed. The two birds sang their best,

but the scepter lay motionless in the king's hand. Hope died slowly out

in the breasts of all. An hour went by; two hours, still no decision.

The day waned to its close, and the waiting multitudes outside the

palace grew crazed with anxiety and apprehension. The twilight came

on, the shadows fell deeper and deeper. The king and his court could no

longer see each other's faces. No one spoke--none called for lights. The

great trial had been made; it had failed; each and all wished to hide

their faces from the light and cover up their deep trouble in their own

hearts.

Finally-hark! A rich, full strain of the divinest melody streamed forth

from a remote part of the hall--the nightingale's voice!

"Up!" shouted the king, "let all the bells make proclamation to the

people, for the choice is made and we have not erred. King, dynasty,

and nation are saved. From henceforth let the nightingale be honored

throughout the land forever. And publish it among all the people that

whosoever shall insult a nightingale, or injure it, shall suffer death.

The king hath spoken."

All that little world was drunk with joy. The castle and the city blazed

with bonfires all night long, the people danced and drank and sang; and

the triumphant clamor of the bells never ceased.

From that day the nightingale was a sacred bird. Its song was heard in

every house; the poets wrote its praises; the painters painted it; its

sculptured image adorned every arch and turret and fountain and public

building. It was even taken into the king's councils; and no grave

matter of state was decided until the soothsayers had laid the thing

before the state nightingale and translated to the ministry what it was

that the bird had sung about it.

II

The young king was very fond of the chase. When the summer was come he

rode forth with hawk and hound, one day, in a brilliant company of his

nobles. He got separated from them by and by, in a great forest, and

took what he imagined a near cut, to find them again; but it was a

mistake. He rode on and on, hopefully at first, but with sinking courage

finally. Twilight came on, and still he was plunging through a lonely

and unknown land. Then came a catastrophe. In the dim light he forced

his horse through a tangled thicket overhanging a steep and rocky

declivity. When horse and rider reached the bottom, the former had a

broken neck and the latter a broken leg. The poor little king lay there

suffering agonies of pain, and each hour seemed a long month to him.

He kept his ear strained to hear any sound that might promise hope of

rescue; but he heard no voice, no sound of horn or bay of hound. So at

last he gave up all hope, and said, "Let death come, for come it must."

Just then the deep, sweet song of a nightingale swept across the still

wastes of the night.

"Saved!" the king said. "Saved! It is the sacred bird, and the prophecy

is come true. The gods themselves protected me from error in the

choice."

He could hardly contain his joy; he could not word his gratitude. Every

few moments now he thought he caught the sound of approaching succor.

But each time it was a disappointment; no succor came. The dull hours

drifted on. Still no help came--but still the sacred bird sang on. He

began to have misgivings about his choice, but he stifled them. Toward

dawn the bird ceased. The morning came, and with it thirst and hunger;

but no succor. The day waxed and waned. At last the king cursed the

nightingale.

Immediately the song of the thrush came from out the wood. The king said

in his heart, "This was the true-bird--my choice was false--succor will

come now."

But it did not come. Then he lay many hours insensible. When he came to

himself, a linnet was singing. He listened with apathy. His faith was

gone. "These birds," he said, "can bring no help; I and my house and my

people are doomed." He turned him about to die; for he was grown very

feeble from hunger and thirst and suffering, and felt that his end was

near. In truth, he wanted to die, and be released from pain. For long

hours he lay without thought or feeling or motion. Then his senses

returned. The dawn of the third morning was breaking. Ah, the world

seemed very beautiful to those worn eyes. Suddenly a great longing to

live rose up in the lad's heart, and from his soul welled a deep and

fervent prayer that Heaven would have mercy upon him and let him see

his home and his friends once more. In that instant a soft, a faint, a

far-off sound, but oh, how inexpressibly sweet to his waiting ear, came

floating out of the distance:

"Waw... he! waw... he! Waw-he!--waw-he!--waw-he!"

"That, oh, that song is sweeter, a thousand times sweeter than the voice

of the nightingale, thrush, or linnet, for it brings not mere hope, but

certainty of succor; and now, indeed, am I saved! The sacred singer has

chosen itself, as the oracle intended; the prophecy is fulfilled, and my

life, my house, and my people are redeemed. The ass shall be sacred from

this day!"

The divine music grew nearer and nearer, stronger--and stronger and ever

sweeter and sweeter to the perishing sufferer's ear. Down the declivity

the docile little donkey wandered, cropping herbage and singing as he

went; and when at last he saw the dead horse and the wounded king, he

came and snuffed at them with simple and marveling curiosity. The king

petted him, and he knelt down as had been his wont when his little

mistress desired to mount. With great labor and pain the lad drew

himself upon the creature's back, and held himself there by aid of the

generous ears. The ass went singing forth from the place and carried

the king to the little peasant-maid's hut. She gave him her pallet for

a bed, refreshed him with goat's milk, and then flew to tell the great

news to the first scouting-party of searchers she might meet.

The king got well. His first act was to proclaim the sacredness and

inviolability of the ass; his second was to add this particular ass to

his cabinet and make him chief minister of the crown; his third was to

have all the statues and effigies of nightingales throughout his kingdom

destroyed, and replaced by statues and effigies of the sacred donkey;

and, his fourth was to announce that when the little peasant maid should

reach her fifteenth year he would make her his queen and he kept his

word.

Such is the legend. This explains why the moldering image of the ass

adorns all these old crumbling walls and arches; and it explains why,

during many centuries, an ass was always the chief minister in that

royal cabinet, just as is still the case in most cabinets to this day;

and it also explains why, in that little kingdom, during many centuries,

all great poems, all great speeches, all great books, all public

solemnities, and all royal proclamations, always began with these

stirring words:

"Waw... he! waw... he!--waw he! Waw-he!"

SPEECH ON THE BABIES

AT THE BANQUET, IN CHICAGO, GIVEN BY THE ARMY OF THE TENNESSEE TO THEIR

FIRST COMMANDER, GENERAL U. S. GRANT, NOVEMBER, 1879

The fifteenth regular toast was "The Babies--as they comfort us in

our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities."

I like that. We have not all had the good fortune to be ladies. We have

not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works

down to the babies, we stand on common ground. It is a shame that for a

thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as

if he didn't amount to anything. If you will stop and think a minute--if

you will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married life

and recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he amounted to

a great deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when

the little fellow arrived at family headquarters you had to hand in your

resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere

body-servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was not a commander

who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You

had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was

only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was

the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and

disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word. You could

face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow

for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and

twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were

sounding in your ears you set your faces toward the batteries, and

advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his

war-whoop you advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the

chance, too. When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw

out any side remarks about certain services being unbecoming an

officer and a gentleman? No. You got up and got it. When he ordered his

pap-bottle and it was not warm, did you talk back? Not you. You went to

work and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as

to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was

right--three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the

colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those hiccoughs. I can taste

that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went along!

Sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old saying

that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels

are whispering to him. Very pretty, but too thin--simply wind on the

stomach, my friends. If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual

hour, two o'clock in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and

remark, with a mental addition which would not improve a Sunday-school

book much, that that was the very thing you were about to propose

yourself? Oh! you were under good discipline, and as you went fluttering

up and down the room in your undress uniform, you not only prattled

undignified baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and

tried to sing!--"Rock-a-by baby in the treetop," for instance. What a

spectacle for an Army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for the

neighbors, too; for it is not everybody within a mile around that likes

military music at three in the morning. And when you had been keeping

this sort of thing up two or three hours, and your little velvet-head

intimated that nothing suited him like exercise and noise, what did you

do? ["Go on!"] You simply went on until you dropped in the last ditch.

The idea that a baby doesn't amount to anything! Why, one baby is just

a house and a front yard full by itself. One baby can furnish more

business than you and your whole Interior Department can attend to. He

is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of lawless activities. Do what

you please, you can't make him stay on the reservation. Sufficient unto

the day is one baby. As long as you are in your right mind don't you

ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a permanent riot. And there ain't

any real difference between triplets and an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance

of the babies. Think what is in store for the present crop! Fifty years

from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still

survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic

numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our

increase. Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political

leviathan--a Great Eastern. The cradled babies of to-day will be on

deck. Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract

on their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in

the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred

things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of those cradles the

unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething--think

of it!--and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but

perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too. In another the future

renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a

languid interest--poor little chap!--and wondering what has become of

that other one they call the wet-nurse. In another the future great

historian is lying--and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly

mission is ended. In another the future President is busying himself

with no profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of

his hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now

some 60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion

to grapple with that same old problem a second time. And in still

one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious

commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with

his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole

strategic mind at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his

big toe into his mouth--an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the

illustrious guest of this evening turned his entire attention to some

fifty-six years ago; and if the child is but a prophecy of the man,

there are mighty few who will doubt that he succeeded.

SPEECH ON THE WEATHER

AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY'S SEVENTY-FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY

The next toast was: "The Oldest Inhabitant--The Weather of New

England."

Who can lose it and forget it?

Who can have it and regret it?

Be interposer 'twixt us Twain.

Merchant of Venice.

To this Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain) replied as follows:--

I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in

New England but the weather. I don't know who makes that, but I think

it must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk's factory who experiment

and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are

promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article,

and will take their custom elsewhere if they don't get it. There is

a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the

stranger's admiration--and regret. The weather is always doing something

there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new

designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it

gets through more business in spring than in any other season. In the

spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of

weather inside of four-and-twenty hours. It was I that made the fame

and fortune of that man that had that marvelous collection of weather on

exhibition at the Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners. He

was going to travel all over the world and get specimens from all the

climes. I said, "Don't you do it; you come to New England on a favorable

spring day." I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety,

and quantity. Well, he came and he made his collection in four days. As

to variety, why, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather

that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity--well, after he

had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not

only had weather enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out;

weather to sell; to deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the

poor. The people of New England are by nature patient and forbearing,

but there are some things which they will not stand. Every year they

kill a lot of poets for writing about "Beautiful Spring." These are

generally casual visitors, who bring their notions of spring from

somewhere else, and cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about

spring. And so the first thing they know the opportunity to inquire

how they feel has permanently gone by. Old Probabilities has a mighty

reputation for accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You

take up the paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off

what to-day's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the

Middle States, in the Wisconsin region. See him sail along in the joy

and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his

tail drop. He doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New

England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and by he gets out something

about like this: Probable northeast to southwest winds, varying to the

southward and westward and eastward, and points between, high and low

barometer swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain,

snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with

thunder and lightning. Then he jots down this postscript from his

wandering mind, to cover accidents: "But it is possible that the program

may be wholly changed in the mean time." Yes, one of the brightest gems

in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is

only one thing certain about it: you are certain there is going to be

plenty of it--a perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end

of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the drought;

you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to one you

get drowned. You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand

from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the

first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These are great

disappointments; but they can't be helped. The lightning there is

peculiar; it is so convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn't

leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether--Well, you'd

think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there. And

the thunder. When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and

saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say,

"Why, what awful thunder you have here!" But when the baton is raised

and the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down in the

cellar with his head in the ash-barrel. Now as to the size of the

weather in New England lengthways, I mean. It is utterly disproportioned

to the size of that little country. Half the time, when it is packed as

full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out

beyond the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles

over the neighboring states. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather.

You can see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to

do it. I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New

England weather, but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear

rain on a tin roof. So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye

to that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin? No,

sir; skips it every time. Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely

to do honor to the New England weather--no language could do it justice.

But, after all, there is at least one or two things about that weather

(or, if you please, effects produced, by it) which we residents would

not like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage,

we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which

compensates for all its bullying vagaries--the ice-storm: when a

leafless tree is clothed with ice from the bottom to the top--ice that

is as bright and clear as crystal; when every bough and twig is strung

with ice-beads, frozen dewdrops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and

white, like the Shah of Persia's diamond plume. Then the wind waves the

branches and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and

drops to prisms that glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored

fires, which change and change again with inconceivable rapidity from

blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold--the tree becomes a

spraying fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands

there the acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature,

of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make

the words too strong.

CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE --

[Being part of a chapter which was

crowded out of "A Tramp Abroad."--M.T.]

There was as Englishman in our compartment, and he complimented me

on--on what? But you would never guess. He complimented me on my

English. He said Americans in general did not speak the English language

as correctly as I did. I said I was obliged to him for his compliment,

since I knew he meant it for one, but that I was not fairly entitled to

it, for I did not speak English at all--I only spoke American.

He laughed, and said it was a distinction without a difference. I said

no, the difference was not prodigious, but still it was considerable. We

fell into a friendly dispute over the matter. I put my case as well as I

could, and said:--

"The languages were identical several generations ago, but our changed

conditions and the spread of our people far to the south and far to

the west have made many alterations in our pronunciation, and have

introduced new words among us and changed the meanings of many old ones.

English people talk through their noses; we do not. We say know, English

people say nao; we say cow, the Briton says kaow; we--"

"Oh, come! that is pure Yankee; everybody knows that."

"Yes, it is pure Yankee; that is true. One cannot hear it in America

outside of the little corner called New England, which is Yankee land.

The English themselves planted it there, two hundred and fifty years

ago, and there it remains; it has never spread. But England talks

through her nose yet; the Londoner and the backwoods New-Englander

pronounce 'know' and 'cow' alike, and then the Briton unconsciously

satirizes himself by making fun of the Yankee's pronunciation."

We argued this point at some length; nobody won; but no matter, the fact

remains Englishmen say nao and kaow for "know" and "cow," and that is

what the rustic inhabitant of a very small section of America does.

"You conferred your 'a' upon New England, too, and there it remains; it

has not traveled out of the narrow limits of those six little states

in all these two hundred and fifty years. All England uses it, New

England's small population--say four millions--use it, but we have

forty-five millions who do not use it. You say 'glahs of wawtah,' so

does New England; at least, New England says 'glahs.' America at large

flattens the 'a', and says 'glass of water.' These sounds are pleasanter

than yours; you may think they are not right--well, in English they are

not right, but in 'American' they are. You say 'flahsk' and 'bahsket,' and

'jackahss'; we say 'flask,' 'basket,' 'jackass'--sounding the 'a' as it

is in 'tallow,' 'fallow,' and so on. Up to as late as 1847 Mr. Webster's

Dictionary had the impudence to still pronounce 'basket' bahsket, when

he knew that outside of his little New England all America shortened the

'a' and paid no attention to his English broadening of it. However, it

called itself an English Dictionary, so it was proper enough that it

should stick to English forms, perhaps. It still calls itself an English

Dictionary today, but it has quietly ceased to pronounce 'basket' as if

it were spelt 'bahsket.' In the American language the 'h' is respected;

the 'h' is not dropped or added improperly."

"The same is the case in England--I mean among the educated classes, of

course."

"Yes, that is true; but a nation's language is a very large matter. It

is not simply a manner of speech obtaining among the educated handful;

the manner obtaining among the vast uneducated multitude must be

considered also. Your uneducated masses speak English, you will not deny

that; our uneducated masses speak American it won't be fair for you to

deny that, for you can see, yourself, that when your stable-boy says,

'It isn't the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse, but the 'ammer, 'ammer,

'ammer on the 'ard 'ighway,' and our stable-boy makes the same remark

without suffocating a single h, these two people are manifestly talking

two different languages. But if the signs are to be trusted, even your

educated classes used to drop the 'h.' They say humble, now, and heroic,

and historic etc., but I judge that they used to drop those h's because

your writers still keep up the fashion of putting an AN before those words

instead of A. This is what Mr. Darwin might call a 'rudimentary' sign

that as an was justifiable once, and useful when your educated classes

used to say 'umble, and 'eroic, and 'istorical. Correct writers of the

American language do not put an before those words."

The English gentleman had something to say upon this matter, but

never mind what he said--I'm not arguing his case. I have him at a

disadvantage, now. I proceeded:

"In England you encourage an orator by exclaiming, 'H'yaah! h'yaah!' We

pronounce it heer in some sections, 'h'yer' in others, and so on; but

our whites do not say 'h'yaah,' pronouncing the a's like the a in ah.

I have heard English ladies say 'don't you'--making two separate and

distinct words of it; your Mr. Burnand has satirized it. But we always

say 'dontchu.' This is much better. Your ladies say, 'Oh, it's oful

nice!' Ours say, 'Oh, it's awful nice!' We say, 'Four hundred,' you say

'For'--as in the word or. Your clergymen speak of 'the Lawd,' ours of

'the Lord'; yours speak of 'the gawds of the heathen,' ours of 'the gods

of the heathen.' When you are exhausted, you say you are 'knocked

up.' We don't. When you say you will do a thing 'directly,' you mean

'immediately'; in the American language--generally speaking--the word

signifies 'after a little.' When you say 'clever,' you mean 'capable';

with us the word used to mean 'accommodating,' but I don't know what it

means now. Your word 'stout' means 'fleshy'; our word 'stout' usually

means 'strong.' Your words 'gentleman' and 'lady' have a very restricted

meaning; with us they include the barmaid, butcher, burglar, harlot, and

horse-thief. You say, 'I haven't got any stockings on,' 'I haven't got

any memory,' 'I haven't got any money in my purse; we usually say, 'I

haven't any stockings on,' 'I haven't any memory!' 'I haven't any money

in my purse.' You say 'out of window'; we always put in a the. If

one asks 'How old is that man?' the Briton answers, 'He will be about

forty'; in the American language we should say, 'He is about forty.'

However, I won't tire you, sir; but if I wanted to, I could pile

up differences here until I not only convinced you that English and

American are separate languages, but that when I speak my native tongue

in its utmost purity an Englishman can't understand me at all."

"I don't wish to flatter you, but it is about all I can do to understand

you now."

That was a very pretty compliment, and it put us on the pleasantest

terms directly--I use the word in the English sense.

[Later--1882. Esthetes in many of our schools are now beginning to teach

the pupils to broaden the 'a,' and to say "don't you," in the elegant

foreign way.]

ROGERS

This Man Rogers happened upon me and introduced himself at the town of

-----, in the South of England, where I stayed awhile. His stepfather

had married a distant relative of mine who was afterward hanged; and so

he seemed to think a blood relationship existed between us. He came

in every day and sat down and talked. Of all the bland, serene human

curiosities I ever saw, I think he was the chiefest. He desired to look

at my new chimney-pot hat. I was very willing, for I thought he would

notice the name of the great Oxford Street hatter in it, and respect

me accordingly. But he turned it about with a sort of grave compassion,

pointed out two or three blemishes, and said that I, being so recently

arrived, could not be expected to know where to supply myself. Said he

would send me the address of his hatter. Then he said, "Pardon me," and

proceeded to cut a neat circle of red tissue paper; daintily notched the

edges of it; took the mucilage and pasted it in my hat so as to cover

the manufacturer's name. He said, "No one will know now where you got

it. I will send you a hat-tip of my hatter, and you can paste it over

this tissue circle." It was the calmest, coolest thing--I never admired

a man so much in my life. Mind, he did this while his own hat sat

offensively near our noses, on the table--an ancient extinguisher of

the "slouch" pattern, limp and shapeless with age, discolored by

vicissitudes of the weather, and banded by an equator of bear's grease

that had stewed through.

Another time he examined my coat. I had no terrors, for over my tailor's

door was the legend, "By Special Appointment Tailor to H. R. H. the

Prince of Wales," etc. I did not know at the time that the most of

the tailor shops had the same sign out, and that whereas it takes nine

tailors to make an ordinary man, it takes a hundred and fifty to make a

prince. He was full of compassion for my coat. Wrote down the address

of his tailor for me. Did not tell me to mention my nom de plume and the

tailor would put his best work on my garment, as complimentary people

sometimes do, but said his tailor would hardly trouble himself for an

unknown person (unknown person, when I thought I was so celebrated in

England!--that was the cruelest cut), but cautioned me to mention his

name, and it would be all right. Thinking to be facetious, I said:--

"But he might sit up all night and injure his health."

"Well, let him," said Rogers; "I've done enough for him, for him to show

some appreciation of it."

I might as well have tried to disconcert a mummy with my facetiousness.

Said Rogers: "I get all my coats there--they're the only coats fit to be

seen in."

I made one more attempt. I said, "I wish you had brought one with you--I

would like to look at it."

"Bless your heart, haven't I got one on?--this article is Morgan's

make."

I examined it. The coat had been bought ready-made, of a Chatham Street

Jew, without any question--about 1848. It probably cost four dollars

when it was new. It was ripped, it was frayed, it was napless and

greasy. I could not resist showing him where it was ripped. It so

affected him that I was almost sorry I had done it. First he seemed

plunged into a bottomless abyss of grief. Then he roused himself, made

a feint with his hands as if waving off the pity of a nation, and

said--with what seemed to me a manufactured emotion--"No matter; no

matter; don't mind me; do not bother about it. I can get another."

When he was thoroughly restored, so that he could examine the rip and

command his feelings, he said, ah, now he understood it--his servant

must have done it while dressing him that morning.

His servant! There was something awe-inspiring in effrontery like this.

Nearly every day he interested himself in some article of my clothing.

One would hardly have expected this sort of infatuation in a man who

always wore the same suit, and it a suit that seemed coeval with the

Conquest.

It was an unworthy ambition, perhaps, but I did wish I could make this

man admire something about me or something I did--you would have felt

the same way. I saw my opportunity: I was about to return to London,

and had "listed" my soiled linen for the wash. It made quite an imposing

mountain in the corner of the room--fifty-four pieces. I hoped he would

fancy it was the accumulation of a single week. I took up the wash-list,

as if to see that it was all right, and then tossed it on the table,

with pretended forgetfulness. Sure enough, he took it up and ran his

eye along down to the grand total. Then he said, "You get off easy," and

laid it down again.

His gloves were the saddest ruin, but he told me where I could get some

like them. His shoes would hardly hold walnuts without leaking, but he

liked to put his feet up on the mantelpiece and contemplate them.

He wore a dim glass breastpin, which he called a "morphylitic

diamond"--whatever that may mean--and said only two of them had ever

been found--the Emperor of China had the other one.

Afterward, in London, it was a pleasure to me to see this fantastic

vagabond come marching into the lobby of the hotel in his grand-ducal

way, for he always had some new imaginary grandeur to develop--there

was nothing stale about him but his clothes. If he addressed me when

strangers were about, he always raised his voice a little and called me

"Sir Richard," or "General," or "Your Lordship"--and when people began

to stare and look deferential, he would fall to inquiring in a casual

way why I disappointed the Duke of Argyll the night before; and then

remind me of our engagement at the Duke of Westminster's for the

following day. I think that for the time being these things were

realities to him. He once came and invited me to go with him and spend

the evening with the Earl of Warwick at his town house. I said I had

received no formal invitation. He said that that was of no consequence,

the Earl had no formalities for him or his friends. I asked if I could

go just as I was. He said no, that would hardly do; evening dress was

requisite at night in any gentleman's house. He said he would wait while

I dressed, and then we would go to his apartments and I could take a

bottle of champagne and a cigar while he dressed. I was very willing to

see how this enterprise would turn out, so I dressed, and we started to

his lodgings. He said if I didn't mind we would walk. So we tramped some

four miles through the mud and fog, and finally found his "apartments";

they consisted of a single room over a barber's shop in a back street.

Two chairs, a small table, an ancient valise, a wash-basin and pitcher

(both on the floor in a corner), an unmade bed, a fragment of a

looking-glass, and a flower-pot, with a perishing little rose geranium

in it, which he called a century plant, and said it had not bloomed now

for upward of two centuries--given to him by the late Lord

Palmerston--(been offered a prodigious sum for it)--these were

the contents of the room. Also a brass candlestick and a part of a

candle. Rogers lit the candle, and told me to sit down and make myself

at home. He said he hoped I was thirsty, because he would surprise my

palate with an article of champagne that seldom got into a commoner's

system; or would I prefer sherry, or port? Said he had port in bottles

that were swathed in stratified cobwebs, every stratum representing a

generation. And as for his cigars--well, I should judge of them

myself. Then he put his head out at the door and called:

"Sackville!" No answer.

"Hi-Sackville!" No answer.

"Now what the devil can have become of that butler? I never allow a

servant to--Oh, confound that idiot, he's got the keys. Can't get into

the other rooms without the keys."

(I was just wondering at his intrepidity in still keeping up the

delusion of the champagne, and trying to imagine how he was going to get

out of the difficulty.)

Now he stopped calling Sackville and began to call "Anglesy." But

Anglesy didn't come. He said, "This is the second time that that equerry

has been absent without leave. To-morrow I'll discharge him." Now

he began to whoop for "Thomas," but Thomas didn't answer. Then for

"Theodore," but no Theodore replied.

"Well, I give it up," said Rogers. "The servants never expect me at

this hour, and so they're all off on a lark. Might get along without

the equerry and the page, but can't have any wine or cigars without the

butler, and can't dress without my valet."

I offered to help him dress, but he would not hear of it; and besides,

he said he would not feel comfortable unless dressed by a practised

hand. However, he finally concluded that he was such old friends with

the Earl that it would not make any difference how he was dressed. So we

took a cab, he gave the driver some directions, and we started. By and

by we stopped before a large house and got out. I never had seen this

man with a collar on. He now stepped under a lamp and got a venerable

paper collar out of his coat pocket, along with a hoary cravat, and put

them on. He ascended the stoop, and entered. Presently he reappeared,

descended rapidly, and said:

"Come--quick!"

We hurried away, and turned the corner.

"Now we're safe," he said, and took off his collar and cravat and

returned them to his pocket.

"Made a mighty narrow escape," said he.

"How?" said I.

"B' George, the Countess was there!"

"Well, what of that?--don't she know you?"

"Know me? Absolutely worships me. I just did happen to catch a glimpse

of her before she saw me--and out I shot. Haven't seen her for two

months--to rush in on her without any warning might have been fatal. She

could not have stood it. I didn't know she was in town--thought she

was at the castle. Let me lean on you--just a moment--there; now I

am better--thank you; thank you ever so much. Lord bless me, what an

escape!"

So I never got to call on the Earl, after all. But I marked the house

for future reference. It proved to be an ordinary family hotel, with

about a thousand plebeians roosting in it.

In most things Rogers was by no means a fool. In some things it was

plain enough that he was a fool, but he certainly did not know it. He

was in the "deadest" earnest in these matters. He died at sea, last

summer, as the "Earl of Ramsgate."